The Old Man

My beloved sister Debbie hates when I call our dad, "the old man." But that's what he is. Our family gathered this weekend to celebrate my old man's 80th birthday. My brother-in-law Mitch put together a montage beginning with old News Reel clips of events and notable births from 1935, then segueing into pictures of my old man from birth through the births of all his grandchildren. The pictures of my parents were heartwarming. They actually were and are a very cute couple.

Debbie asked me to put together a funny story about my dad. Wow, try to pick just one!

Like the time my dad took me up to Mayo Clinic when I was twelve. I was recovering from surgery, and he stepped into my hospital room one morning, and saw a large group of doctors surrounding my bed, staring down at me in total concentration. His heart fell, thinking the worst, and he hurried over, only to find I was soundly beating the greatest medical minds in the country in a game of chess.

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Or the time he got called into school by my art teacher. By the time I was a junior in high school, I had resigned myself to the fact I had no talent for art. Consequently, I put little effort into the class. One afternoon, I sat off to the side of the room reading, while the other students busied themselves with their projects. Our teacher, Mr. Buchwald, came up to my desk and asked me why I wasn't working on my assignment. I told him I had no interest in it. He asked me what I did have an interest in. I told him “writing.” He said he wanted me to write a theme.

I took out a sheet of paper, and my friends around me started to give me long words at random, which I used in ridiculous and meaningless sentences. I turned in the paper at the end of class, which precipitated the summons for my dad to come in.

Mr. Buchwald, whose first name was Wesley, but I called him "Art" as in Art Buchwald, explained the situation to my dad, emphasizing how serious this was, and handed my paper to him to read. My dad quickly scanned the page and turned to look at me. I could tell he was thinking, “I got called away from work for this crap?” We both looked at Mr. Buchwald, expecting him to say he was flunking me, or how disrespectful I was, turning in such a paper. But instead, he launched into a spiel about how great the theme was; it was one of the best written pieces he had ever seen in all his years teaching; and he would be remiss as an educator if he didn't call my parents in to insist I pursue a career in creative writing.

Again my dad looked at me, and I shrugged a shoulder, as if to say, “it's not my fault.” We took our leave of Mr. Buchwald. I headed back to class, and my dad headed back to work. No further word was ever said about my brilliant theme.

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This oft told story is a Dunn family legend. I need only say two words: Pinewood Derby. On the eve of the greatest and most anticipated Cub Scout event of the year, my dad would come rushing in from work, wolf down some dinner, and help me and Bunce with our entries. The basic kits came with a block of soft wood and four small, rubber wheels. He would take a steak knife, hack away a little of the corners, nail the tires onto the body, and smear half a jar of Vaseline around the rims. Bunce and I had slapped on some leftover house paint earlier in the day, but they were still tacky to the touch.

We arrived at the shopping mall where the race was held. The long, undulating, wooden track was waxed to a reflective shine. We held our cars behind our backs until race time, when we would set them up next to the aerodynamically-sculpted, high-gloss varnished entries of our buddies. Many had finely-painted pin-stripes and detailing, and plastic cockpits with little drivers behind handmade steering wheels. They obviously showed weeks of careful construction, using state of the art woodworking tools, by father and son teams determined to win.

When the gates were released, we would all run alongside, as our cars sped down the track. Cries of “Foul!” followed when our monstrosities crossed the finish line first. The other fathers, who had put heart and soul, not to mention hours of work, into their sons' miniature roadsters, snatched up our cars to inspect for hidden lead weights and other violations, which would explain this fluke. But they would come away with nothing more than greasy hands for their efforts. Nowhere in the rules did it mention my dad's secret weapon – Vaseline.

Once again, the judges had no alternative but to reluctantly award us the trophy, although they clearly felt the entire derby demeaned in doing so. We beat a hasty retreat, and my dad had the good sense to wait till we got outside before laughing demonically.

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For several years, when Nik and Ben were growing up, we took vacations with my mom and dad, backroading around western and central Illinois.

My dad was always skeptical when I said, “Just follow me,” leading him down roads so small they didn't have names, or, in some cases, even pavement. One time we went to the Amish area around Arcola. I had booked us rooms at a nearby Hampton Inn.

Earlier in the year, Shellie and I had attended a bluegrass festival, and we had stayed at the local Hampton Inn. Hampton Inn published a hotel magazine that was placed in every room in the chain. In the back of the magazine was a feature article where guests could share their experiences about staying at the hotels. I wrote up a story about our trip and submitted it.

A few months later, I got a call saying my piece was selected for inclusion and we had won a free weekend package. That was why I had booked our rooms at the Hampton Inn near Arcola. We hadn't said anything to my parents about my article appearing in the magazine, but as soon as we checked in, I opened our copy and there it was, my article and a very nice color picture of me and Shellie.

A few minutes later, my mom called to say my dad was in the bathroom yelling about some kind of picture in a magazine. We had a hard time making him understand the feature was in every Hampton Inn room in the country, not just that specific hotel.

We were in the area to attend a bluegrass festival at Rockome Gardens, a sort of Amish amusement theme park. I led the way down country lanes, and we got to see quaint Amish families, right out of Little House on the Prairie, working on their farms, bonneted girls tilling in the gardens.

In this same way we happened upon a rodeo. There were my folks, propped upon the bleachers, munching on popcorn, peanuts, and candy apples. Bright lights illuminated the ring, and my parents were as big-eyed as their grandchildren, thrilling to the bucking broncos, leaping bulls, horses, cowboys, and clowns.

We were given a brochure at the front desk of our hotel for a barn tour. Historic barns that allowed tourists to stop and take pictures were marked on a map. We pulled up to one location, but the barn was at the end of a long gravel driveway. We proceeded slowly ahead, taking in a magnificent old wooden structure. I got out to take a picture, then we slowly backed out. I was riding shotgun so I could navigate. I glanced out the windshield, and an old man was running towards our car waving his arms. My first impulse was to tell Shellie to floor it, but common sense prevailed. Shellie stopped and rolled down the window as the man came up. “Are you here for the barn tour?” he said.

We told him we were, and he told us to come on out. We learned that for many years he operated an antiques shop out of the barn, and turned it into a museum when he retired. He showed us his displays of old time farm equipment and household appliances, then took us into the loft to demonstrate how the barn was constructed. We climbed down and went back outside after this informative tour, and were preparing to leave, but he said, “Would you like to come inside and see my personal collection?”

How do you say no to an offer like that, especially when you have the love and appreciation of collectibles that we do? The house was stuffed to the rafters – literally – with rare pieces. I can only guess as to the value, based on years of watching Antiques Roadshow, but one room was all dolls, another model trains, yet another folk art, pottery, clocks, quilts, and on and on, all of it arranged on handmade furniture. When he asked us to stay for lunch, we felt we had worn out our welcome, and headed on our way.

I had the address for a ceramics shop. We cruised around the small town, but couldn't find it. I asked a couple of farmers outside the general store, and they said the address was way out in the country. We followed our grid-map, and at last came upon a mailbox with the correct address. Only there was no shop, just a farmhouse. But we'd come this far and I was not to be deterred. “I'm gonna knock on the door and ask,” I said. “No, no, you can't just go up to the door and knock!” said my dad.

Shellie and I got out and I knocked on the door. A woman answered, no hesitation in opening her door to strangers, and I explained about looking for a ceramics shop. “Yes!” she exclaimed, “You're at the right place.” I waved to my folks, and they got out with the boys, and we all followed the woman around back, where she let us into a ceramics shop and studio. Providentially, there was a small water closet attached to the shop, which we all availed ourselves upon one after the other.

Once that business was out of the way, we got down to the business of exploring the shop. There were pieces in various stages of preparation and it was fascinating to learn about the different steps involved. My mom found a few pieces she liked, and Shellie and I bought a festive red, green, and white, Christmas candlestick. But the real treasure was a wild turkey with bright red wattle, and shimmering blue breast feathers. But what made this piece unique, instead of the typical, fanned, tail plumage, this turkey was in a natural standing pose. It is now the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving collection.

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On a bright Florida morning, brimming with anticipation, we boarded the shuttle bus in front of our hotel at the Caribbean Beach Resort in Walt Disney World. Nik and I, my mom and sisters were sitting up front. My dad and three-year-old Ben were in back. We made a couple of stops throughout the six villages of the resort. At the third stop, Old Port Royale, the hub of the complex, we listened to people exiting through the rear, and watched people boarding up the front steps. All of a sudden, here comes my dad, with this sheepish grin, holding Ben's hand. My mom and I are looking at each other, and my sisters started laughing. My dad waits till he's passing right next to us in the aisle, looks down at Ben's upturned face, innocent smile, and bright, orange hair, and says, “That's the last time I'm listening to you.”

Only my old man.