Artifacts of my father

Darien posted a very lovely tribute to her father today (actually only part one, with several more on the way). It got me thinking about my own father -- the things I remember, and more that are only dimly recalled or that have even slipped from my grasp altogether. There are things I have that remind me of him. They surround my daily life, usually in the background, but sometimes thrusting themselves forward and sending me into a reverie.

I have several such artifacts of my father, but I'll just mention just three. One is a brick from Uniontown. I picked it up during a marathon trip to Pennsylvania, driving up and back in less than twenty-four hours. Other than my father, I have a hazy recollection of who made that journey with us. Darien didn't come I'm certain, but a young Antonia did. Darien must have stayed back with one or two boys, too young to understand why we would pack into a station wagon that way and just drive. Maybe Jody, too? But not Skip? My mother must have been there, too. Would I had a digital camera back then.

We toured around Uniontown, Dad pointing out things he remembered, such as the house where he was born, the laundry where he worked, the Slovak club where his father spent a lot of time, talking and playing music. He also showed us the site of his elementary school. The original building had been razed, and a new one built in its place. A rubble of bricks was piled off to the side. Some of them had the name Uniontown chiseled into them, indicating the place of their manufacture. Probably in violation of some law, I took one as a memento of the trip. Whenever I look at it, I am not only reminded of the trip, but of my father growing up in that town that had such an influence on his life, and that hovered my own childhood far away in California, like a Grecian myth. The older I get, the more I think of histories that I never experienced, but that exert their own spell over me.

(It is irritating that when I went to write this, I could not find the brick. It is in the utility room, somewhere on the workbench, I think. I shall have to clean the room now. My father would never have let his workshop devolve into the state mine is in. There is a small glimmer of hope that Gabriel is using it as a perch for his dragons.)

Another artifact I have is a knife. It belonged to my father. It is a Craftsman knife -- nothing special, just utilitarian. He always bought Craftsman, so I always buy Craftsman. Whenever I use it, I remember him and how he loved tools and working with his hands and fixing things. He engraved his name on it. I think he gave it to me before he died, but I'm not sure. I wish I had written it down.

The last artifact is a pocket watch. I have it displayed in my front hallway. I see it every time I come down the stairs, or walk out the front door. Most of the time it is just there, invisible, part of the patchwork surrounding me. Other times it makes me pause -- time stops, so to speak. It was my father's; my mother gave it to me after he died. Darien found a stand for it. The watch makes me remember the pride he had in efficiency, in systems, in finding the shortest route to get from Point A to Point B. I have that in me, too. I use it now as an icon for myself on my blogs.

Places. Tools. Time. These and other artifacts of my father live in me still. They are the trivial detritus of life, never intended to carry the weight of the past with them, but that is what they do now. They make me muse upon what my own children will take from me.