Until the past few years, my Dad hasn’t been much for phone conversations. He’s not quite a hermit, but has made sure to live hundreds of miles away from the nearest relative. He can be terse, and will not put up with bullshit from anyone.
When he was still a young officer in the Navy, I was playing with the Captain’s daughter. Apparently she was quite a brat, and my Dad told her that if she didn’t mind her manners, she wouldn’t be allowed to stay at our house. She responded that her daddy was the Captain and stuck her tongue out at him. Big. Mistake. He grabbed her tongue and held on to it, and told her in his house HE was in charge, not her Daddy. She promptly ran home and tattled. Captain-Daddy did come over to thank my Dad for disciplining her because his wife had made her a spoiled brat. Wouldn’t have mattered if the Captain threatened him with the brig, however. Dad wouldn’t have apologized for someone else’s problem.
Fast-forward to last night. My dad actually called me…itself a rare occurrence. We chatted about Eraserhead’s college (Dad manages his tuition program). Then Dad started to reminisce about his Navy flying days when he was a navigator. He told me a story that he has told me several times before. It’s always the same…he hasn’t embellished it over the years (remember, he has no tolerance for bullshit). But Dad is a very engaging story teller, so you don’t mind listening to it again. His favorite, however, is about the time his plane crashed into the ocean (he was flying off the Kennedy). I think it was right after take-off, and it was filmed because it was so close to the ship. The film showed him as the only one who looked around to make sure everyone made it out of the plane.
Rescue was shortly thereafter, and Dad and the rest of the crew found themselves in the sick bay. The doctor asked them if they wanted medicinal brandy, and my Dad said (and here was an embellishment I’d never heard before), ‘F**k, Yes!’. I nearly dropped the phone. In all the times my Dad has relayed his Navy day stories, he only occasionally says ’shit’ or ‘damn’…and then only when I got into my mid to late 30s or so. My Dad has always been aware of proprieties, even complaining at my sister’s wedding that she dressed the groomsmen and him in TAILS for a mid-day wedding…tails weren’t supposed to be worn until late afternoon/evening. He has always had a very precise code of conduct. Until last night.
He’s 71 now…he’s entitled to let fly whatever he wants to, I guess. And if you’ve been any kind of long-time reader, you know that I let fly with the f-bomb from time to time.
But it’s my DAD, for goodness sake. My DAD said the f-word. It’s like finding out your parents actually have sex and enjoy it. Which kind of goes with the f-word, I guess.
Oh, and for the record, Dad said that the brandy tasted like shit. He accused the doctor of drinking the good stuff and substituting rot-gut instead, and would need to crash three more times before that stuff tasted good.
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My Dad said ‘F**k’. Does this mean he finally sees me as an adult? It makes me kind of sad…I still want to be his ‘little blue-eyed sweetheart’. *sigh*