I was raised by the Marlboro man. No lie, he even owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, an honor reserved for only the most loyal of customers.
My dad wasn't the kind of father you would cuddle up next to on the couch. He wasn't an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough, and smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. He was a strict disciplinarian, a religious workaholic, and a seasoned rebel. He was a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He didn't teach me to ride a bike. But he did teach me to fear no living man. He never took me camping. But he taught me to take responsibility for my actions.
My dad never joined the church. And when I turned eight and wanted to be baptized I had to ask for his permission. If I've painted an accurate picture for you, then maybe you can see how imposing a figure my dad was and how daunting a prospect was laid before me. But, I wanted to be baptized so I summoned my courage and entered the garage (where he always seemed to be) and asked him if I could be baptized. A twinkle never failed to appear in the old man's eyes whenever he was asked for permission or advise, and somehow they were always one and the same. I will never forget his response. "Making a promise to Heavenly Father is a very important thing, Diana. You don't get baptized because your mother wants you to or because I want you to, you get baptized because you want to. And if you do get baptized I will hold you to it whether you're sixteen or thirty. If you make a promise I will make sure you keep it." At eight years old I learned what integrity meant. Being baptized was my choice and that has made an incalculable difference in my life.
When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. Here is a little background. I grew up in a tiny mountain resort town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate freeway. And what really chapped his hind-quarters were all the "incompetent" drivers blocking his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and making suggestions of where they may shove their heads. Oh, it was all great fun until he met other road-ragers. On more than one occasion the car in front of us would pull over and challenge my dad to a fight. My dad would oblige, much to their surprise and dismay. But he never actually had to fight. The offending victim, upon seeing a friggin' scary angry dude coming for him, would always opt for flight. So naturally, when it came time to learn to drive, I wanted my mom to teach me. That didn't last very long as the old man did not approve much of her skills and wanted to pass along secret driving techniques to me that only he knew. Teach me the ways of the Samuri. That also didn't last very long. After a few lessons I absolutely refused to drive at all and did not get my licence until I was eighteen.
I left home at sixteen just like he did. As you can imagine, he was not very pleased with my leaving and refused to give his permission. But I guess that's why its called running away. A week after I left he called me. "Honey, I've given it some thought and I am giving you my permission." I didn't know it then, but in fact he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and gained his respect and he treated me accordingly from then on. I knew I had arrived the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.
The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. I hadn't lived at home for two years and I could tell he was very pleased to have me back. So pleased he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in wonderful condition, even the interior, but it didn't run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. Word on the street had it he even built his own car once. So, to my utter delight he bought the car. He tried so hard to fix it for me, but couldn't do it. It must have been frustrating for him, that his mind wasn't working so clearly as it had once done. But he would hardly admit defeat. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash. "This is a good car" and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and that was what mattered. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. After Andy and I got married we sold it to his cousin and it still runs to this day. Sometimes at night the horn will start honking and the hood will pop open. They say its my dad, haunting it.
The last time I saw my dad was that Christmas. I wish I had known it, then we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have, "Just you and me." When he took me to the airport, Angie and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He never was a man of many words. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me, that great cigarette-Old Spice hug and told me he loved me. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn't give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.
That spring he annoyed the crap out of me with phone calls about my income tax forms he was preparing for me. I was ungrateful and a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could talk with him and let him know I loved him. I ended up talking to mom for a long time, but he walked in just as I was about ready to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6'4. "I could still take him." He said. That was the last thing he said to me.
Tuesday morning I got a phone call.
He thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me "smartass" as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. Happy Father's Day Dad.
