Dead-eye Dick. Thinking about my Dad this morning. The hairy eyeball. When my Father looked at you in a certain way, that pale blue Germanic eye did not rest on you lightly.
His look carried gravitas and censure. I felt the same way I do if I’m stopped by a cop. I may not know exactly what I’ve done, but I’m sure I’ve done something. Confessions spring to my mind and they go back years.
I used his look at work in dealing with wayward children. Just a look, no language, no emotion. Stopped them dead in their tracks…for a minute.
I tricked my Father at the end of his life. He was living alone in the condo after my mother died. My brother John and sister Jane would come over and handle all his doctor’s appointments, and were responsible for his care. My sister Chris and I would come as we could to provide respite care.
As my Dad’s health was increasingly compromised, though, it seemed as though he needed someone to be with him all the time. That was too much.
Dad did not want to move to John’s house. We didn’t blame him, none of us blamed him. He was a man used to his own rhythms. What seemed like a small life to us, was enough life for him.
I came down from Bainbridge and picked my Dad up knowing that I would be bringing him to John’s house and I would not be bringing him back home.
We knew Dad would fight this. We knew he would rage. I did it anyway. We got to John’s, we ate dinner, we hung out and I told Dad that I would not be taking him home.
That was the last time I saw the hairy eyeball. That furious blue eye stabbed me to the heart.
Hello. Yes, this is Dog 