Just One of Those Things
My father was an artist. A performance artist. An entertainer. A joker and a lear. An opera singer. A ballerina.
When I found his single’s ad from the days after he had traded his old big van for a silver Toyota Celica, I knew it was artifact of him. An artifact of who he was. Even though I knew then that no young teenage girl should see or needed to see her father’s single’s ad, I saw it and treasured it. I cringed with embarrassment and then, almost instantly, I glowed with pride at Moe, my dad. So absurd.
He offered to some lovely single lady “a trip to the moon on gossamer wings.”
He desired romance. He desired Stardust. Someone who could melt in his panache. Somewhere with them he’d laughingly wave his ringmaster hands and declare, “my dear, it was just one of those things.” Pretending to be light, then suddenly heavy. Pretending not to care, then lifting his brown warm face into the spotlight, showing his inner life,
his eyes could shout
his hair could stand on end
Faberge, a precious everything. Vivid. Wholesome. Wild.
He could hold your attention to his thoughts and his thinking with a breath or the bits of cigar that was struck to his lip.
In a tattered sport coat, needing a haircut, he drove that sports car like a matador or an expert Lindy Hopper…..
Must have been some date.