I had a dad, once. He was really into his azalea bushes. He kept “finding” kittens in said azalea bushes, all of whom moved in. I mean: what were we to do. Where were they to go. He played the fiddle and was a bronc rider in the rodeo, which prompted my grandmother to buy him a burial plot. I think she sold it eventually. He was an Eagle Scout and studied 19th and 20th Century American literature. He named me for a poet. One you’ve probably heard of. He taught me how to ride a bike and how to mow a lawn and how to drive a car. He taught me how to shoot a gun. He built a playhouse for me and my brother (we wanted a treehouse, but this was an acceptable compromise, I suppose, and all of the trees are now gone – every single one fell down after the drought or was ripped up and out by tornadoes. The playhouse is still there, sort of.).

That truck was sold years ago, and the Dairy Queen burned down. This man is dead. I guess it’s true that nothing lasts.

There were times when I was young that I considered murdering him in his sleep. He was not always fair. He really loved teasing people, but did not like to be teased himself. He believed that there was one way to correctly make a bed. I think it was how he was taught to make a bed in the military, the same way I imagine his father was taught to make a bed in the military. He told the same jokes over and over again. If I said to him: ‘Dad, I have a question,’ his immediate response, every single time was, ‘And I have an answer: Millard Fillmore.’ It wasn’t funny. That is not a funny joke. What if my question were serious, pressing even? What if hearing that response repeatedly just made me stop asking questions or having thoughts? He made me spend entire Saturdays raking pine needles, insisting that he couldn’t just mow over them because the acidity would be bad for the grass. The grass was Saint Augustine grass. Augustine ‘is the patron saint of brewers, printers, theologians, and the alleviation of sore eyes.’ I’m not sure why he has a grass named after him any more than I am sure why he is the patron saint of ‘the alleviation of sore eyes.’ Whose sore eyes are we talking about, here. But my dad should definitely be named the patron saint of the Texas lawn. Jaysus. A lawn can really do a man in.

When I was little, he used to chase me down and tickle me. There were squeals. When my little brother pushed me off the bed as we were jumping on it, and I fell onto the toy box face first and bit all the way through my tongue, my dad was like: ‘oh shit.’ He put me in a sundress, wrapped my tongue in a paper towel, and took me to the emergency room.

He had a handlebar mustache and a large collection of duck-themed neckties. He was a big fan of Bob Newhart.

Listen: I had a dad, once.