So I love peanuts. I know that this has become my trademark.
But I always am taken a bit aback when I here someone say that a peanut is too small for them. I used to feel the same way when I was younger, and part of me watched my dad with an attitude of "he needs a bigger knife!" Oh, the ignorance of youth.
Dad always felt that way about my choice of transportation, my little VW bug. When I would take him fishing in his later years, he'd never miss an opportunity to poke fun at my beetle, asking where the key was to wind up the rubber bands, or have I fed the hamsters on the treadmill today. For a man who grew up driving Hudsons and Pontiacs, a VW beetle was a joke of a car.
Then one day came an understanding.
Dad's health had been so-so after his chemotherapy for Hodgkins disease, and I know he liked to get out of the house. I'd take him down to the river in my bug, and we'd do some fishing as the official excuse to be out. This one day a big two day rain had pelted the area, and when we got down to the river, the last 1/4 mile of so of the rutted dirt road was a mess. Standing water in some places, mud and flooded pot holes in others. We looked down the road, and dad said it was a wasted trip.
"No it ain't, just hang on." I told him.
"You're gonna get bogged down good in there, kid, no way you're gonna make it."
I put the bug in low gear, and off we went, the air cooled engine growling away with that distinctive rattle of the old Volkswagons, and we crawled right through the worst road I'd seen in a long time. Where there was standing water, the bug left a wake like a boat, but it kept moving, fishtailing some in the mud, all the way to the end where there was a dry gravel clearing to park.
Getting out of the car, dad gave it a long appraising stare.
"Not bad for such a little thing. It does alright!" he said.
This was a day to be marked on a calender. Dad actually saying something good about my so called 'nazi taxi' as he sometimes called my car. A real banner day.
We ambled down to the river bank where we found a nice big log to sit on. I watched dad go through his routine of catfish hunting, and with his pointy little peanut, he dissected just the right piece of chicken liver to go on the line. Dad used that peanut like a surgeon would used a scalpel. Every cut a precise incision on what he was working with. That was one of the things I always admired about him, the cool, measured control he did things with. I don't have that self control cool.
It was a good day, and we got fish for dinner. One of dad's was a beautiful yellow perch, and as dad cleaned it by the river back, I watched in admiration as he flicked his wrist, and opened up the belly. A few more of his precise cuts and the fish was cleaned.
" Not bad for such a little thing. It does alright." I said.
He opened his hand, and looked down at his little peanut laying there. Dad was not a big guy, maybe about 5' 7" or 8", and his hands were not big. But even in his hand, it looked like a little knife.
"No, it does the job alright. Just like that little bug you drive." he said.
A funny thing happened that day. Dad never made fun of my car again, and I never joked about his peanut.
Hell, I ended up carrying one.
It was a good lesson in not judging things by size.
But I always am taken a bit aback when I here someone say that a peanut is too small for them. I used to feel the same way when I was younger, and part of me watched my dad with an attitude of "he needs a bigger knife!" Oh, the ignorance of youth.
Dad always felt that way about my choice of transportation, my little VW bug. When I would take him fishing in his later years, he'd never miss an opportunity to poke fun at my beetle, asking where the key was to wind up the rubber bands, or have I fed the hamsters on the treadmill today. For a man who grew up driving Hudsons and Pontiacs, a VW beetle was a joke of a car.
Then one day came an understanding.
Dad's health had been so-so after his chemotherapy for Hodgkins disease, and I know he liked to get out of the house. I'd take him down to the river in my bug, and we'd do some fishing as the official excuse to be out. This one day a big two day rain had pelted the area, and when we got down to the river, the last 1/4 mile of so of the rutted dirt road was a mess. Standing water in some places, mud and flooded pot holes in others. We looked down the road, and dad said it was a wasted trip.
"No it ain't, just hang on." I told him.
"You're gonna get bogged down good in there, kid, no way you're gonna make it."
I put the bug in low gear, and off we went, the air cooled engine growling away with that distinctive rattle of the old Volkswagons, and we crawled right through the worst road I'd seen in a long time. Where there was standing water, the bug left a wake like a boat, but it kept moving, fishtailing some in the mud, all the way to the end where there was a dry gravel clearing to park.
Getting out of the car, dad gave it a long appraising stare.
"Not bad for such a little thing. It does alright!" he said.
This was a day to be marked on a calender. Dad actually saying something good about my so called 'nazi taxi' as he sometimes called my car. A real banner day.
We ambled down to the river bank where we found a nice big log to sit on. I watched dad go through his routine of catfish hunting, and with his pointy little peanut, he dissected just the right piece of chicken liver to go on the line. Dad used that peanut like a surgeon would used a scalpel. Every cut a precise incision on what he was working with. That was one of the things I always admired about him, the cool, measured control he did things with. I don't have that self control cool.
It was a good day, and we got fish for dinner. One of dad's was a beautiful yellow perch, and as dad cleaned it by the river back, I watched in admiration as he flicked his wrist, and opened up the belly. A few more of his precise cuts and the fish was cleaned.
" Not bad for such a little thing. It does alright." I said.
He opened his hand, and looked down at his little peanut laying there. Dad was not a big guy, maybe about 5' 7" or 8", and his hands were not big. But even in his hand, it looked like a little knife.
"No, it does the job alright. Just like that little bug you drive." he said.
A funny thing happened that day. Dad never made fun of my car again, and I never joked about his peanut.
Hell, I ended up carrying one.
It was a good lesson in not judging things by size.
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