"My first meeting with Dad"
The first time I met my dad was at the Foley’s Christmas Parade in downtown Houston. Must’ve been the one in 1953. I wasn’t much past three years old at the time, but I remember it like it was… well, a long time ago. After all, I was only about three. Think I said that.
I do remember that downtown Houston was packed with a lot of noisy parade watchers. There were horses and horse poop and marching bands. Possibly in that order. Hard to see, because my view was mostly around and between legs. Drums were beating, horns were blaring and triangles were making those little ting ting noises. I liked triangles. Not so much the poop. Or, the clowns. (The “why” of clownery has eluded me to this day. Nothing all that funny about a person hiding behind a white, painted face, weird colored poofy hair, elongated shoes, a bulbous red nose and baggy pajamas. I just never could grasp the humor in it all. And, I’ve tried. I tried interviewing a clown once, and I went away with little more than the notion that the person didn’t want to be known. Didn’t want to stand out. The irony just drips.)
Oh, and back to the parade. It was loud. Real loud. Near the end, it got even louder. I could hear people down the street start to scream. I couldn’t see what the hysteria was about, but it was apparent that the scream was coming my way. Just scary as it could be.
The glimpses I did manage to catch were mostly of people walking and riding and marching just like they had purpose. Just like there was some kind of strategic plan behind the entire outing. I had no idea. Even those who weren’t clowns were dressed oddly. I had landed on Mars and was the only one the least bit leery of the trip.
And then it happened. The scream reached those around me. Kids were screaming mostly, but it was kind of hard to tell. When you’re real little, even most kids seem adult to you. I just remember I was standing there pretty much on my own. Oh, I was in a glob of people. Mostly Hayters. There was Mom, Dad and my two older brothers and two sisters. But, nobody was paying attention to me. Like I say, I was pretty much alone.
Without moving much, I tried to catch a glimpse of what all the excitement was. We must’ve been late comers, ‘cause we were a few layers into the crowd. If we had had to pay for our position along the street, one would say that we were in the cheap seats. Or, the standing-room-only section… a place that seemed to coincide with our lot in life.
I must’ve somehow grabbed onto Dad’s pant-leg. I don’t know. Like I say, I have no memory of any time spent with the man before this moment. But, just as the cheers got louder, I heard Dad say, “Santa Claus is coming!” And, that was the earliest memory I have of him. The first time my mind actually met my Dad. Santa too, for that matter.
But, there, in downtown Houston, with mounted horses and bands and clowns and poop, something so terrifying was about to happen that I would never be able to forget it. I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, but it was coming, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. For some reason completely lost on a three-year-old, Daddy scooped me up with his two huge hands and plopped me atop his shoulders. I later realized he simply wanted to give me a better look at Santa Clause, like that was something worth scaring the daylights out of a little kid.
My dad was about 50 feet tall, as I remember. His head was massive and still had a bit of hair on top. I didn’t think that odd at the moment, ‘cause I had never focused on the tops of that many heads. Most memories after the horror of the Foley’s Parade would be of a bare-domed dad. He was bound to be wearing glasses at the time, but I don’t remember. If he had been, it seems I would’ve crushed ‘em when I clamped my arms around his head. Don’t remember the glasses or the crush.
There was a shrill scream, though. I remember ‘cause it was mine. I started screaming and crying at full volume. I held nothing back. It was one of those cries where your breathing cuts out for a few seconds. The minute fresh air hits your lungs again, it instantly pours out in an ear-busting wail. The wail keeps trying to sound, even when the air is gone. If you’ve never had one of those cries, you’re one lucky duck.
I had apparently been a fortunate mallard up to that point, because I remember nothing like it before that moment. What caused it was the view. I didn’t like it. From where I sat, I could see how many people there were all around me. And, I could see weird men and women in green outfits with green velvety shoes and green velvety caps with little white balls on the end. They were skipping and laughing, all a part of a procession that culminated in a giant moving contraption with the anomaly known as Santa Claus perched atop a massive throne with a big whip. And, it was all taking place within a deep canyon skirted a wall of buildings shooting straight up to the clouds.
I managed to assess all of this in about a second and a half. That’s how long my eyes stayed open. After that, I clamped ‘em shut… and I screamed like a baby. Too scared to be ashamed. Sheesh.
Eventually, Dad managed to pry my tiny arms loose from around his head and place me back on the concrete. This enabled me to grab hold of Mom’s leg while my sobbing continued. A more pathetic figure was not to be seen anywhere in downtown Houston. I was pretty sure of that.
I don’t know that I ruined the parade for everyone, but I surely ruined it for Dad. I don’t remember his words so much, but I’ve got the look right here in front of my mind’s eye. It was a look that I would come to know as one of embarrassment, disbelief, sadness… oh, and disappointment. It’s the most hurtful look in the world.
Seems most of my life with Dad involved me trying to behave in a way where he would never have cause to show me that look again. More than Mom, more than my peers, more than anyone on the planet, I wanted to please that man. Wanted him to be proud of me. Don’t think he ever fully recognized my quest, any more than I detected how much he hoped to be needed and loved and respected by his family. An easy hope, the way I saw it. He already had me. Hey, he was my father. The guy was 50 feet tall.
