The Chat

[Mike P]

The industrial revolution came slow to west Texas. I think it arrived around 1955. I was eight years old. And I remember like yesterday when Dad drove that old John Deere down the long gravel road leading to the entrance of our small cattle ranch. It was not so much the marvel of the big mechanical contraption upon which he was riding. It was his smile.

Smiles were not a commodity item with this man. They were not given out frequently. No, they had to be earned. His demeanor was that of a very serious man. It had to be. He was monarch of a house with a wife and five boys all within two years age of each other. The best description of life within the confines of his small Texas ranch house would be that of a professional wrestling cage match. Happy go lucky was just not in the cards. Yes, a stern demeanor was required twenty-four seven or the inmates would surely take over the asylum.

Of course it was all a facade. He did his best to maintain his charade, but the first time we were taken to the barn for a "chat" every son discovered the truth. A "chat" was mom's term for a "whooping." Every son was threatened with a "chat" with dad on a regular basis. And of course every son feared the "chat" as one fears judgment day itself. That is, until you had your first "chat."

My first "chat" happened the day I painted my brother Matt. We were supposed to be painting the old wooden pump house with the leftover whitewash from the main barn. All outbuildings on Texas ranches in those days were painted white. You wanted to reflect as much heat as possible. To me it never seemed to work, the barns and equipment sheds in August were pages out of Dante's Inferno.

It started innocently enough. We were just painting away trying to get done as quickly as possible so we could catch up with the other boys who no doubt were getting into something they shouldn't. In the rush to finish, our brush strokes met and my brush handle and the accompanying hand were covered in white. Of course a transgression of this enormity could not go without retribution. And the game was on. Matt lost.

At the time I thought it to be a Picasso, a true work of art. The only places sans whitewash were small circles around his eyes. This was not from lack of effort on my part mind you, every time I tried to paint them he summoned an extra burst of energy from some unknown source and moved the intended target. He was white from head to toe. And when last seen running to the house screaming for mom I still to this day think it to be one of the most beautiful sights these old eyes have ever witnessed. He was a living, breathing, and yes, running work of art.

Of course he went running into the house with wet whitewash dripping from every article of clothing and body. This compounded my soon to be problem. To paint ones brother in our family would not be acceptable behavior, understandable yes, but not accepted. You could get off with a stern warning not to do it again from parents attempting to be concerned but hardly able to keep from laughing. But have said painted sibling run into the house and splatter all of "moms stuff" with whitewash, well that was akin to a family felony. You could break or screw up just about anything on that ranch, and lord knows we tried, but you could never ever endanger "moms stuff."

Thus, my first piece of recognizable art was my entrance fee to the big barn. It was my ticket to my first "chat." I sat out by the big barn waiting for my father to join me. It was death row. It was the green mile. There were no last requests or visits by men of the cloth as I sat on a crate covered with a feed sack waiting for my execution. He made me wait for three hours. It was unbearable.

On a late May afternoon on a sunny spring day in west Texas I had a "chat" with my father in a dimly lit cattle barn. There was no "whooping." There never was. The man never laid a hand in anger on any of us. The rumor alone was enough to keep us in line until the day each of us would have our "chat." It was then that I discovered that hidden smile, the one that was always right there under the frowning features. I didn't find out until I was in my teens that the reason for my three hour stay of execution before he showed up for the "chat" was due largely to my father trying to compose himself to a point where he could have our conversation without bursting out laughing. Give him credit. He knew that one of his sons painting another one of his sons was not without humor.

Our first "chat" was my departure from childhood. The corral gate had been closed behind my carefree youth. I was welcomed by my father into a new world; A world of responsibilities. There would be accounting for my actions from now on. And it would be that way the rest of my life. And he told me this with a smile on his face.

On this fathers day I see my father driving that old John Deere tractor down that gravel road. I see that wide smile on his face. I see the man that made me who I am. And I miss him.


I would give anything to be able to have a "chat" with him again.

[bucont]

I would give anything to be able to have a "chat" with him again.

I to my friend, well done and thank you.

[awshucks]

Allis-Chalmers and Illinois, Mike, minor differences, similar story, thanks for reminding me of it/them.

[huntone]

Mike P, another "true work of art" , Thank you for sharing, I am remembering those "chats" with him as well.

[mikej]

great story mike

[kmtpr]

Enjoyed reading your great story. Made me laugh and feel sorrow, as well. Thanks for sharing it, today.

[FredBear]

An amazing man, and an amazing story Mike thanks for sharing.

[VixChix]

With my Dad it was basement sessions.... We all feared them, but they were often the best of times. I miss him especially today.

[Grizzly Adam]

Appreciate it, Mike.

Had a chat with my Dad this morning! Not the type you recall; another kind, but just as nice. I'm glad he's still around.

[MNDeerHunter]

I'm sure most of us wish we would have had more time for some more of these chats with our dad's. Guess for me I had to become one to really understand all that I missed. Wish I could turn back time.