Me, My Father, and the F Bomb

** The following is a personal essay and an exercise in descriptive writing.

His tombstone will read, “Thank you for everything, Mr. Terry.”

Thank-you notes form a collage across his refrigerator with the remarks of nephews, nieces, cousins, and family friends. They offer gratitude for the graduation money he granted, the loans he gave in times of need, or well-wishes he passed on for recovery from illness.

My father donates to a myriad of charities like the ASPCA, Wounded Warrior Project, and American Cancer Society. He befriends the waitresses in the restaurants where he eats lunch, and he tips them 40 percent. Hell, he attended one bartender’s wedding as a guest. Kindness is a chromosome in his DNA.

But, when this man gets behind the wheel of a car in traffic, expletives flow like margaritas at happy hour.

I need to interject here and say whoever trained my dad to drive told him to ride the bumper of the car he trailed, speed 10-15 miles over the limit at all times, not brake until death is 99 percent certain and cuss like a soldier.

I first learned all about the F-bomb on Interstate 55 North in 1991.

The Cardinals baseball game reverberated throughout the conversion van while my dad drove, my brother and sister fought over who had broken the Boyz II Men cassette, and my mother read a paperback by some author I’ve since forgotten. Without warning, our van swerved and accelerated in a maneuver fit for Dale Earnhardt.

“It’s the ONE on the RIGHT, you slow F—!” my father barked.

He multiplied the chastisement (and remains to do so) with a death-stare of bewilderment at the driver and their perceived lack of vehicular prowess.

Road rage is a misnomer for his actions. I can count on my hands the memories such as this one growing up, but old age hath released the Kraken.

Outside of his Camaro, my dad fits into the Andy Griffith era. He has worked for his company for 39 years. He waves to our neighbors as he shuffles down the driveway to get the Commercial Appeal. Photos of his grandson, Jackson, substitute as wallpaper in the living room of his house.

I love my dad. I emulate the man. I find myself saying, “Thank you, dear,” to my waitresses just the way he does. I place family before myself the way he has. I worship before the altar of St. Louis sports the way he taught me to.

Having said that, I like to say a prayer for the Memphis drivers stuck in front of Terry Baxter.