"DAD, I WAS THINKING..."

One day I greeted my father, "Hey, Dad, I was just thinking..."  

"Did that hurt?" and he grinned. 

Dad loved a laugh.  He loved to read the comic strips outloud to us kids, and mom, if he thought they were especially funny.  Andy Capp and B.C. were a couple of his favorites.

***

Dad also loved his coffee.  He always had a cup of coffee in hand or nearby.  We'd be going down the interstate crossing the bridge over the Ohio River into Kentucky, navigating changing lanes for the next exit, Mom would be pouring coffee from his Thermos into it's lid, she'd hold steady until the effects of a road bump left, and he'd be holding out one hand waiting for the cup to be put in it.

To us 5 kids he'd sing that Roger Miller song with the substituion of coffee "Chug-a-lug, your coffee mug, makes you want to holler "Hi-de-ho, don'tcha know!"  He'd come into the room with something to drink - that  black coffee - singing that song "Burns your tummy, don't ya know, chug a lug, chug a lug."  

Do you know the song?  Well, here's a link to what we'd hear coming from our record player https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsNWlM3fWmI

Black, to him, meant that the coffee without the cup could stand on it's own.  Brrrr, "shiver me timbers" and shake the soul, it wasn't sharable, unt-uh.  I never did learn to love coffee that way.

If I was sick, he'd stick a wine bottle in my face, in that deep resonant voice of his, towering over me he'd say, "Take 3 sips."  If I took 1 or 2, he'd hand it back to me for the final sip, all the while carrying a cup of coffee in the other hand.

He went through spells of black coffee, coffee with cream and sugar, or when he was sick he laid off for a year or so and only drank hot water.  Coffee with sugar and cream was called mud. I think muddy water came from his days in the army.

When company came to visit he'd offer around a cup o' Joe.  

All of us kids knew what he meant when he'd say swill, java, or go-juice -- "Bring me my coffee."

***

"Now, you know more than you knew yesterday," that's what Dad used to tell us after imparting some information he thought essential or interesting.

"I need a rope."
"Don't use that saw over your head!"
"Use both hands!"                                                                                                                                                              "Angle it down and behind you when you walk."

Those are just some of the things dad might say to a son who's learning to use a chainsaw.   Of all the peoples I know, from Dad to brothers, to in-laws, to my hubby, to my sons, and their co-woodcutters, none were ever hurt but one and he was saved by his steel-toed shoes, thank the Good Lord.

And, lately I was thinking, thank the Good Lord for my many facetted father.