Apples and Trees.

The other day I realized I have not spoken to my dad in over a year. In my family that is not so unusual. Even when I lived at home we could go weeks without seeing each other. Most of our conversations were not much more intimate than those shared with a recognized grocery cashier. Really the only time he was interested in what I was doing was when I was building something like a bookshelf out of a baby grand piano shell. When I was about 23 he picked up the guitar again. He never played as I grew up but I think he dabbled a bit before I was born. He bought a pretty nice acoustic and spent a good amount of time in the garage he built, practicing. I was and am impressed how well he played so quickly. So we talked about guitars a lot. Having been in bands since I was 15, guitar talk is the cornerstone of 90% of my conversations, and also the time for my girl friends to find someone more interesting to hang out with for a while. The love of a specific amp or guitar or pedal or tube brand or string diameter is the basis for most of my current friendships. If I met a woman playing a Rickenbacker through a blackface Fender amp you would have to keep me off my knees, hopelessly proposing. My dad liked to jam with his buddies every other weekend. Mostly playing Chicago and Peter Gabriel songs. Stuff I could get behind. I stepped in a couple times. The guy that hosted had a Rhodes and an Hammond X3, which I was told is the first solid-state version of the B3. It sounded amazing and is the closest I have ever been to playing a B3. They drank Old Style and smoked weed. The latter never in front of me. I figured out my dad smoked weed the first time it was smoked in my presence. I learned from a MASH episode that the sense of smell is the strongest memory inducer. Still to this day if I smell almond extract I think of my grandmother's kitchen. I was thirteen and my best friend's older brother smoked in front of me. Immediately I was sent back to an image of me just out of diapers with my dad in the basement. It was a revelation likened to the feeling of being hit in the face with a fly swatter. Not long after, the hunt for the stash was in affect. On a bright summer afternoon it was found. In exchange for a few hits one of the older boys rolled it into a joint for me. A skill I have yet to master. Oh. My. God. In the succeeding years I had not been much of a smoker. A hit or two here and there. I pretty much abandoned it all together for ten years. Only smoking with trusted people in the appropriate situation and with quality grade. Never had I encountered a blend as potent as my fathers contribution. That afternoon was spent behind a curtain, the infinite lies stretched in smiling repose. As if I had become a dogs tongue after a dozen fetches. I recall regaining consciousness in a bathtub of room temperature water. After that I found more pleasure selling my dads weed rather than smoking it. Turns out I do not so much enjoy handing over large chunks of my day to oblivion. I could sell a nickels worth for twenty bucks. That is how good it was. I funded a trip to Six Flags with a dime bag. He may well have known but never, never broached the subject. How does a good natured guy such as my father bring himself to accuse his fifteen year old son of ganking his good stuff? Well, time has indeed told, he could not find a way. Good for me. Having been the subject of my fathers rage, luckily, in only verbal outbursts, I consider it a gift from the gods that I was cunning enough to not get caught doing much worthy of anything more than a spanking. About six years ago I was living at home and it just-so-happened I had to do some work on my Mexican made 72 Telecaster Re-issue, blonde, semi hollow body with the F hole, upgraded pick-ups. I played 11s at the time. A small allen wrench was needed to adjust the string height. Dad was in garage and I knew the door was locked. I had a key but out of respect and fear of an uncomfortable conversation, I knocked on the garage door. This time however I was in a reckless, kamikaze even, mood. In one swift motion I unlocked the door and walked in, like I owned the place.

Whatever my dad had in his hand, he threw it. In a direction and trajectory, I imagine, my dad tried very hard to remember. Parts per million, was a phrase that came to mind. How much oxygen could be left in here? A question I glanced at. Busted. I walked in determined to find the proper tool for my task. I felt like a nature photographer in the midst of a lion devouring a conquered gazelle. “Oh, pardon me, excuse me while I just....” Intentionally I took my time. More practically I could have taken the bag back into my room but instead I stood at the bench carefully choosing the select few that could perform the task. In the next few seconds the cloud of smoke was replaced by the pulsing, flexing, tension of my fathers will to remove me from the room. Somewhere, a joint was disappearing. Here, I stood in the way. Purposefully I combed over the angled hexagonal shafts, admiring their six sided beauty. Science is awesome. Finally, he erupted. As I anticipated. “Ju..Jus....Just take them all inside!” So I did. Like a good son should.