The Rusty Duck

I wanted to write a little something about my dad... I realize that Father's Day was last Sunday, but I was busy with, well, fatherly things, so I'm only now posting this. I've mentioned my dad in a few blogs, and many of my friends here on the myspaces have had the pleasure of meeting him over the years, but I thought this would be a good time to talk about him a little bit.

I should mention that, if you didn't know, my dad passed away back in 1995...just a bit less than 2 weeks after I married Mrs. Frenchy. This was, of course, a very difficult time for me. My dad was my closest friend, and that friendship was hard won, as we were too similar for our own good for a while which resulted in a couple years where we didn't even speak. We managed to work our way through that crap to emerge closer and more connected because of it. But his passing doesn't define my dad, now or ever, so I want to tell a story about him now, for Father's Day.

The year is probably 1985 or so. I was heavily into the Alarm, the Cure, and any other band with giant hair and earnest or gothic leanings. And really, I think the giant hair was probably the most important. My sole means of transportation was a 70's era Vespa scooter, and I had big, fucking giant hair. At this point I would use cans upon cans of Aqua Net Extra Super Hold, and rat the hell out of it, for sort of a huge pompadour effect, just a little more messy. I had a bunch of friends with scooters and motorcycles as well, and we'd ride out to Club Can't Tell or even Dansepark (sp?) in West Sac all the time.

One day I was riding around with my friend Woody, who was preparing to head out on an epic trip through Europe and points east, eventually working on a kibbutz in Isreal (I think). He was getting his last check at the Rusty Duck restaurant over by the river, and I was sitting on a bench in the lobby waiting for him so we could go get beer afterward. It was lunch time on a weekday and my dad happens to walk by with a bunch of folks on their way from a business lunch. My dad was a plant manager at the rice mill in West Sacramento (which is now the River Cats stadium, I believe), and so did not necessarily travel in the most enlightened of circles.

It took me a couple seconds to recognize him, and by that time his group was heading down the stairs in front of the restaurant. I jumped up, went out the door, and yelled "Hey dad!". The folks in his party turned around, absolutely horrified, and then he said "Hey Kid!", and hopped up a couple stairs and gave me a hug. I really can't describe the looks on the faces of the dudes with him, but they ranged from disgust to absolute fear. We talked for a few minutes, and then he headed out and I went back up to wait for Woody.

I didn't think a whole lot about this until my dad told me later, between fits of laughter, how his co-workers (and vendors) had joked with him as they walked by me by saying "Hey Dick (his name), there's your kid!" There was plenty of LMFAO by all, but my dad never actually looked over, so he didn't even see me. Once they figured out that I actually WAS his kid...Oh man. My dad couldn't even get this far in the story without doubling over in laughter. It never occurred to him to be embarrassed about it...he thought they looked like idiots for thinking it mattered at all. He grew up in the country during a time that looking different definitely wasn't cool, and he dug what my friends and I were doing, and bragged about it to his buddies.

So I told this story at his memorial service, and, of course, it went over quite well. There were a ton of people there, and, as it turned out, one of them had been in that party at the Rusty Duck all those years ago. He came up to me afterward and talked to me for a while, telling me how uncomfortable he was at first after it happened (my dad was a big and pretty intimidating guy), but how impressed he was with how neither of us seemed to give a shit about it. He told me that my dad, and the Rusty Duck incident, taught him a lot about the kind of father he wanted to be.

And I guess I have to say now that I know exactly what he meant.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.