the story of his life: a second chance
They say that a person writes about what they know, no matter how much they try to change it. I'm not going to change anything, even though a lot of people have heard this story too many times. It deserves to be told one more time.
Being Norm's youngest son has had its high points. I can remember more than one. For example - I was able to stay up later than my other siblings, and I was regularly allowed to watch Carol Burnett after the news with my parents. No one my age would recall Carol walking down a flight of steps wearing an outfit made of curtains in their spoof of Gone With the Wind, complete with curtain rod. I won't forget sitting on the end of the bed, laughing with them, never realizing that I was being granted an opportunity I would cherish for the rest of my life. Then there were the times that I would hear Dad put Benny Goodman's Sing Sing Sing on the turntable and crank the volume until the windows would rattle. In my twenties, because of that, I had to go out and buy at least three different CDs that had that song on it. I still occasionally put one of them on, and crank the volume until my windows rattle, and my cats run for cover. Dad somehow instilled in me an appreciation of music that predates most of what my peers grew up hearing. Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughn, the Rat Pack...ironically, it helped me get the job I have now, buying music for a retail gift store. Classic. Just like him. He and I are alike in many ways, too. We were both skinny little kids (although I'm still the skinny one, even now), we both have a certain knack for numbers, we both have a need for "compartmentalizing" our food on the dinner plate. Big Band, jazz, a pretty good green thumb, photography...
I won't say I haven't given him any grief over the years. I think I'm the black sheep of the family, notorious from birth for being the cause of far too much consternation and upset. I was the one with the "devil in his eyes"...I'm not sure if it was the mischevious glint, or the result of my infamous escapades (please, don't mention the Vikings cap episode, I still cringe thinking about it), but I know that I'm not the model child. Being on the wrong side of the barrier going down the North Rim of the Grand Canyon when I was five; dropping a crescent wrench into the gas tank of his TR3 when I was young, only to have him find out decades later - "There was this clunking sound when I went around the curve...I can't figure out where it's coming from..."; being up on the roof of the house even though I knew I shouldn't have been; being three hours late from canoeing with my then-girlfriend Jessica on the lakes near our home, which led to my being grounded (I think for the first time ever) when I was 16; totaling the first car I ever drove (a gift from Dad, of course) on an icy overpass while everyone else was in Milwaukee for the Christmas holiday; constantly breaking the rules and ignoring authority, perhaps like every child does. It doesn't change the fact that in spite of all of those things - even that I probably cause them heartache even now - Dad did something I will never, ever forget.
In 1989, midsummer, I went with Mom & Dad just prior to my senior year in high school to the north shore of Minnesota. I'd never been there that I could recall, although Mom told me that I'd been there once, when I was a baby. We camped at a place along the shore called Temperance River. One day during that trip, we drove north to a state park near Grand Marais called Cascade River. The three of us hiked up a simple trail through cedars and aspen and ferns to the peak of what was called Lookout Mountain. The view north was spectacular, with a steep valley running north to another ridge of the Sawtooths, and Lake Superior glittering off to the right. The lookout itself was a promontory of rock that jutted out from the face of a cliff that came to an arrowhead point. Mom and I were standing on this precipice, enjoying the view, while Dad was back on the trail taking pictures. I'd seen a ledge, only six feet down on the northwest side of the precipice, and - not being at all afraid of heights - decided it would allow me a better view of the lake. Or somesuch adolescent meandering. I probably just wanted to do it because it was there. I was a teenager. I was immortal.After Mom saw me climbing down and warned me about the possiblity of falling, I assured her I was fine. "I'm not afraid of heights," was the last thing I said. I had one foot on the ledge, and was bringing the other down to meet it. But that foot only found empty air. I don't remember anything after that until I stopped falling, about forty feet down. I was on a ledge much more treacherous than the first, and with no way to climb back up. I was torn up and bleeding, and in shock.
What happened after that is why I'm telling this story.
That cliff view is raw and beautiful. And deadly. I've discovered that over the years since I fell, at least two individuals have died falling from that same point. But I didn't. And here's why - Dad saved my life. I was clinging to the side of a cliff, too injured to even attempt to move on my own, and he climbed down to get me back. It took me maybe ten seconds to get where I was, bouncing like a pinball all the way. It took him half an hour. He could've fallen himself, but he risked his own life to save mine. He got down to where I was sitting, and half-carried and half-pushed me all the way to the top. For the record, Mom was instrumental as well. Near the top, she lowered the strap of the water canteen she had for me to grab on to, and when I did, she practically threw both me and Dad up over the lip of the precipice with indominitable force.
After that, we had to walk all the way back down the mountain and drive to Grand Marais to the hospital so I could be stitched up. I remember that Dad gave me his handkerchief (the omnipresent handkerchief!) to wrap around my wrist where it had been sliced open. Ironically, that meant more to me than he probably knew.
I've managed, by steps and degrees, to vex and terrify my father ever since I was born. He's disciplined me, taught me, chastised me, laughed with me. He's given me the independence to make my own mistakes and learn from them. He's helped me when I need it, sometimes when I don't deserve it. And he gave me a second chance at life. I can never repay that, no matter how hard I try.
Thank you, Dad. I owe you, more than you will ever know.
-Mark
posted by normbirthday @ 2:48 PM
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