My Father - Part Two

I was born into a poetic home. My father was of a pure Scot ancestory and that is one explanation: the wind carried the brine, the brine went into his blood, and out came a torrent of words. My mother was enchanted by these words, she fell in love with the windy traces of the brouge. Douglas, Sr. would at home lean against the mantle, puff his pipe, and recite Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, "Crossing the Bar." On other occasions it was "Sea Fever" by John Masefield or a Robert Service poem, and always by heart. At the end of these performances, my mother would break out in applause--each and every time.

When I was born, I was given my father's name. Such a christening is a stigmata of sorts, both a wounding and a blessing--a definite nail in a sure place. After my father died, this name became a sacred thing to me. I would often go alone to the coast and stand by myself, looking out upon a brutal storm and speak our name out loud, as if it were some key word the ocean would accept.

"Douglas......."

I would say it between the pounding waves, the way one takes a breath between phrases of a hymn. I suppose I expected to see an angel fly out of the midst of heaven.

"Douglas......."

I braced myself against the wind--against the breath of God. I wanted the ocean to speak to me as my father once did and tell me the stories one more time.

"Douglas......."

The wind forces me to remember. I stagger back and collapse on the beach, waiting for rhapsodies to rise, for the burning coal to be pressed against my lips, and a melody of words to come forth.