STORY 4......THE ESKIMO TOE

If you ever met my dad, you really would have gotten the sense he was just a big kid. I don't know if he ever grew up. And, honestly, I don't know if that's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's one of the things he got right. In the same house, that the swoosh swoosh happened, my mom had this little white Eskimo dog. Kind of an odd hyper dog. But my dad and that damn dog just seemed to have a bond. One of my dad's favorite things to do if there was no one else to play with him was run around the galley kitchen and let that dog chase him. And chase it did, and my dad would run as fast as he could on two legs. We went over there one time in the summer, and there's my dad in his bare feet. With a big black toe.

Me: "Dad, what happened to your toe?"

And my mom laughs.

Mom: "Oh, Rick, you tell them. Tell them what you did."

And sure enough, my dad tells us a story that he's running around with his sock feet in the kitchen, and he slid around the corner, and he banged his toe. And he tells us in vivid detail of how this is the dog's fault. Well, almost on cue, the dog comes down, My dad looks at the dog. The dog looks at my dad. And my dad takes off. Running around three or four times, the dog barking, my dad laughing with his big world famous laugh, laughing so much he ran out of air.

DO. DO. DO. DO. And in a matter of it had to happen......he bangs the same toe.

My dad gets on the stairs with his bum in his hands, no longer able to walk, and says, oh, oh, oh, oh, all the way up the stairs. All the way down the hallway and into his bedroom. And there he sat assessing the damage. He hobbles back downstairs and sits on the couch after pouring himself a whiskey. He had broken his toe again. That toe, I don't think was ever right. It somehow was blue the rest of that year. He wouldn't say it. I know he thought it was the dog's fault. My dad just couldn't help it. Life was a game, and he was gonna win because I think he thought the game was about fun. They would later sell that dog to my uncle Morris's farmhouse. Once in a while, we'd go there, and sure enough, my dad would chase the dog around the lawn chairs in the yard. Where it was safe. No doors and no furniture to bang his toe on.