The Day Dad Violated the Deep Freeze

You may not have noticed, but I get myself into some mind-boggingly stupid situations. The good news is there's a slight chance I may have inherited this trait. (Humor me; it's good news.)  As Dad used to say, "He came by it honest."  Then again, if Dad couldn't remember your name, he might refer to you as that Acorn Eating Idiot. Not everything he said was a pearl of wisdom, but he had his moments.

Dad used to be a mechanic. Most days you'd never know it. Although, many people say he could rip down a car engine to the bolts and reassemble it, especially vehicles predating 1980. Anything after that had "Too damn many computer brains in it." Dad thought computers were about as useful as syphilis. I remember once unwittingly handing him a calculator while he was trying to "figger sumthin'."  After that, I put serious effort into trying to convince Mom I was adopted. All electronics had "them computer brains" hidden somewhere and he avoided touching them at all costs. He did eventually master the Channel Up and Down buttons of the TV remote, but as for the rest, Volume Up was the only other button he ever found.

Dad's other talent was pissing off Mom.

He claimed the chainsaw stopped working.  So, one day in August around noon when the outside temperature floated somewhere around the boiling point of cast iron, he decided to bring this loud, wickedly sharp machine that is not even considered safe in the deep forest, far away from civilization, inside the house for some minor surgery. This was a chainsaw full of dirt and sawdust and gasoline and grime and oil, near Mom's shag carpet and white walls and floral print couch that no one ever sat on and weighed as much as a Boeing B-17.

Mom liked dirt in the same way you and I like a relaxing morning gallbladder attack. In fact, I think our little house dog Skeeter learned to play dead just to get out of trouble whenever Mom found a dog hair. (She tried her best to train herself not to shed.)  And I'm not talking about "Good dog. Sit. Roll over. Play dead."  It was more like,

"Mom, I think Skeeter's dead."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, the last time I saw her take a breath was about thirty-five minutes ago."

"Tell her the couch doesn't have any hair on it."

Skeeter's tail would immediately start thumping.

I'm sure Dad thought he was showing Mom consideration by not repairing the chainsaw on her dining room table.  Because to him that would have been far more convenient. It is, however, a little known fact that the top of  a Whirlpool, 22-cubic-foot, chest-style freezer makes an excellent workbench substitute.

He started with the hand guard and a couple of housing plates. Apparently the problem began to run and hide -- similar to Skeeter when she forgot she wasn't supposed to pee in the basket that kept all Mom's Fingerhut catalogs.  Dad removed the chain catcher, flywheel, clutch, muffler, spark plug, throttle, and eventually every ounce of oil and otherwise unidentifiable goo from deep in the small engine's bowels.  From across the room, I noticed what used to be a chainsaw now vaguely resembled a Hubble photograph of the Omega Centauri galaxy.  I'm pretty sure that some of the parts were actually chainsaw molecules.

No, he didn't remember to lay down a protective cloth first.

Mom walked into the room and immediately Skeeter ran to Dad with a look that pleaded for him to play dead. Dad smiled down at the dog gently, as if to say, "It's okay. There's nothing to worry about. I'm bald."

Mom said, "Do you really think my kitchen and my formerly snow-white freezer is the right place to be tearing up your Weed Eater?"

"It, um, was a chainsaw."

"It stinks! My whole house smells like Havoline 10w40."

"Can't you just squirt a little Febreze around...?"

At that point, the dog left.

Mom said, "How am I supposed to fix supper when I can't even get to the meat? This mess better be gone before four o'clock."  Then, she walked back to the laundry room -- I'm sure to beat the dryer for allowing lint to collect on its filter.

Did I mention Dad was ornery?

That evening, we ended up ordering cheeseburgers from a little cafe on the edge of town. 

Three days later, we found Dad standing at the freezer again.  All the same parts still lay strewn on the lid, but by now the mass could only be identified as a chainsaw from dental records.  In addition to this, next to Dad's right foot was the lawn mower.  I'm not sure whether his idea was to put the two together and make one good one, or maybe he just thought Mom's shag carpet was getting a little tall. 

In the weeks ahead, he got tired of the project and carried the machines back to the shed. They had been reduced to two small, jangling boxes.  My brother and I used try to guess which box was which, until we dug deep into them and started finding things like speakers, small tires, and what appeared to be part of the casing to a multi-stage rocket booster.

I miss him.

How would you describe your dad?