LJ Idol Season 9 Week 23 - Kickin' from the Hip
o/` "Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting
Those kicks were fast as lightning
In fact, it was a little bit frightening
But they fought with expert timing o/`
-- "Kung Foo Fighting" performed by Carl Douglas
I don't have many memories of my Pa. I would suppose it's partially because he died so young, but when he was alive he wasn't home often. His nominal designation in the US Army would have been E-6, medical corps; that, like everything else about the man, only tells half the truth. Whether you use the word spook or agent or "army intelligence", it all amounts to the same thing: a father gone from home at odd intervals to odd places. Sometimes I knew where he had been. After all, it's not difficult to figure out Pa had been to Cuba when I was helping Ma fish him out of a lagoon off the Panama Canal after a "fishing trip". Just one problem: you don't fish for marlin or tarpon during that time of year and you don't use a dinghy. I mentioned it --- I would eventually learn not to point out contradictions for any reason whatsoever --- and while Ma, white faced, was still trying to shut me up, my Pa slapped me. You just don't know who might be watching or listening, he'd explained.
Most of the time when Pa disappeared I at least had no bloody clue where he'd gone or what he would be doing. Occasionally, my Ma would drop a hint: watch the news, read this newspaper article. I learned to always keep an eye on the politics of the Middle East, North and South Korea, and certain countries in Central and South America. Even amid chaos, Pa's vanishing acts had a pattern: pack up our things and put most of them in storage; pack separate bags for Ma, myself, and my baby sister; Pa, in dress uniform, gets dropped off at a major civilian airport; we make our way via whatever transportation might be available (I'd been there via bus, airplane, troop transport, and train) to my mother's parents who lived in a small rural town at the base of the Rockies.
One time he was gone so long I no longer recognized him when my Ma picked him up from one of these jaunts. I remember an impression of great physical power and a pair of faded Levis and a mustard colored western cut coat lined with real sheepskin. He stood alone, ostracized by the small crowd for reasons I, at the age of six, couldn't understand. To me, wherever my Pa had been, he was a hero. Later I learned that he'd changed into civilian attire because people were accosting him between plane changes and calling him nasty names like "baby killer". I might not have been able to stop calling him "Grandpa" by mistake, but I didn't want that big man alone among all the ugly people. I put my hand in his and he squeezed, hard but without hurting.
We never talked much since his time with me was always so short. Instead, he took me to the park. Pa had a forest green jogging suit with some sort of foreign logo on the back of it. The velvety black belt didn't seem made to hold up those pants, but he always wore it on these outings. I wore plaid pants and turtlenecks, just like every other kid my age. Always tubby and never graceful, I avoided parks with play sets. If I didn't, I usually ended up knocked over and my shoes dangling out of reach on either the monkey bars or the swings. This particular park, on the north side of town next to a creek, didn't offer much beyond some concrete pipes over which had been piled random boulders and a large pile of black sand boxed in with old railroad ties. Ancient sycamore, maple, and aspen grew throughout the park.
My Ma and grandma searched industriously for hidden books before I left with him. Otherwise, I tended to curl up somewhere and read (if you could even get me out of the car) instead of exercising. As soon as we'd pulled away from the house, however, my Pa would smile and pat my head. I knew then I still had at least one book stashed somewhere and he would give it to me when we got there. Once at the park, he'd see me safely perched on a bench or a swing and then he'd begin his own routine.
Sweep. Kick. Punch. Sweep. Kick. Punch. He carefully executed each move with a swift gracefulness I wished intensely I'd inherited. The content of each move varied but he always did the same number of repetitions each time. The fists frightened me because they made an audible smacking followed by forceful air as they flashed by but the kicks fascinated me. The book would fall open, forgotten at my side, as I watched. Now dancing, now standing in place, he seemed more like a delicate dragonfly than a two hundred pound man executing deadly martial arts moves.
With my accursed red hair and fair skin, I burnt easily, so we moved with the sun into the shade of the trees. I got down on hands and knees, book tucked into my waistband to guard it against mishap, so that I could crawl through the maze of concrete tubes. At the center, where four tubes meet, the rocks were tilted and piled around to form a narrow chimney with a window to the sky. Here at this junction, I sat to watch the show. My favorite part of Pa's routine was coming up.
He'd stand alone atop the highest part of the rocks, barefoot now and precariously balanced, as he sent each kick high in a controlled arc. The force behind the foot would have easily destroyed an opponent's face if he didn't duck fast enough.
When he'd finished, I'd crawl out and we'd both sit on a large boulder off to one side. Made of sandstone, not granite, it had an indentation perfect for the purpose. We sat together, a child too intelligent for her years and a man who knew far more than he wanted about things no one else had to worry about, as the breeze lifted the black locks dried in curls across his forehead. Once, I broke the silence with a simple question.
"Do you beat people up?"
"No."
"It looks kinda mean."
"It's Taikwon-do. It allows me to control my temper so I don't have to hurt people when I don't need to do so."
I nodded, satisfied. "There's peanut butter and homemade jam in grandma's fridge. Let's go!"
Those kicks were fast as lightning
In fact, it was a little bit frightening
But they fought with expert timing o/`
-- "Kung Foo Fighting" performed by Carl Douglas
I don't have many memories of my Pa. I would suppose it's partially because he died so young, but when he was alive he wasn't home often. His nominal designation in the US Army would have been E-6, medical corps; that, like everything else about the man, only tells half the truth. Whether you use the word spook or agent or "army intelligence", it all amounts to the same thing: a father gone from home at odd intervals to odd places. Sometimes I knew where he had been. After all, it's not difficult to figure out Pa had been to Cuba when I was helping Ma fish him out of a lagoon off the Panama Canal after a "fishing trip". Just one problem: you don't fish for marlin or tarpon during that time of year and you don't use a dinghy. I mentioned it --- I would eventually learn not to point out contradictions for any reason whatsoever --- and while Ma, white faced, was still trying to shut me up, my Pa slapped me. You just don't know who might be watching or listening, he'd explained.
Most of the time when Pa disappeared I at least had no bloody clue where he'd gone or what he would be doing. Occasionally, my Ma would drop a hint: watch the news, read this newspaper article. I learned to always keep an eye on the politics of the Middle East, North and South Korea, and certain countries in Central and South America. Even amid chaos, Pa's vanishing acts had a pattern: pack up our things and put most of them in storage; pack separate bags for Ma, myself, and my baby sister; Pa, in dress uniform, gets dropped off at a major civilian airport; we make our way via whatever transportation might be available (I'd been there via bus, airplane, troop transport, and train) to my mother's parents who lived in a small rural town at the base of the Rockies.
One time he was gone so long I no longer recognized him when my Ma picked him up from one of these jaunts. I remember an impression of great physical power and a pair of faded Levis and a mustard colored western cut coat lined with real sheepskin. He stood alone, ostracized by the small crowd for reasons I, at the age of six, couldn't understand. To me, wherever my Pa had been, he was a hero. Later I learned that he'd changed into civilian attire because people were accosting him between plane changes and calling him nasty names like "baby killer". I might not have been able to stop calling him "Grandpa" by mistake, but I didn't want that big man alone among all the ugly people. I put my hand in his and he squeezed, hard but without hurting.
We never talked much since his time with me was always so short. Instead, he took me to the park. Pa had a forest green jogging suit with some sort of foreign logo on the back of it. The velvety black belt didn't seem made to hold up those pants, but he always wore it on these outings. I wore plaid pants and turtlenecks, just like every other kid my age. Always tubby and never graceful, I avoided parks with play sets. If I didn't, I usually ended up knocked over and my shoes dangling out of reach on either the monkey bars or the swings. This particular park, on the north side of town next to a creek, didn't offer much beyond some concrete pipes over which had been piled random boulders and a large pile of black sand boxed in with old railroad ties. Ancient sycamore, maple, and aspen grew throughout the park.
My Ma and grandma searched industriously for hidden books before I left with him. Otherwise, I tended to curl up somewhere and read (if you could even get me out of the car) instead of exercising. As soon as we'd pulled away from the house, however, my Pa would smile and pat my head. I knew then I still had at least one book stashed somewhere and he would give it to me when we got there. Once at the park, he'd see me safely perched on a bench or a swing and then he'd begin his own routine.
Sweep. Kick. Punch. Sweep. Kick. Punch. He carefully executed each move with a swift gracefulness I wished intensely I'd inherited. The content of each move varied but he always did the same number of repetitions each time. The fists frightened me because they made an audible smacking followed by forceful air as they flashed by but the kicks fascinated me. The book would fall open, forgotten at my side, as I watched. Now dancing, now standing in place, he seemed more like a delicate dragonfly than a two hundred pound man executing deadly martial arts moves.
With my accursed red hair and fair skin, I burnt easily, so we moved with the sun into the shade of the trees. I got down on hands and knees, book tucked into my waistband to guard it against mishap, so that I could crawl through the maze of concrete tubes. At the center, where four tubes meet, the rocks were tilted and piled around to form a narrow chimney with a window to the sky. Here at this junction, I sat to watch the show. My favorite part of Pa's routine was coming up.
He'd stand alone atop the highest part of the rocks, barefoot now and precariously balanced, as he sent each kick high in a controlled arc. The force behind the foot would have easily destroyed an opponent's face if he didn't duck fast enough.
When he'd finished, I'd crawl out and we'd both sit on a large boulder off to one side. Made of sandstone, not granite, it had an indentation perfect for the purpose. We sat together, a child too intelligent for her years and a man who knew far more than he wanted about things no one else had to worry about, as the breeze lifted the black locks dried in curls across his forehead. Once, I broke the silence with a simple question.
"Do you beat people up?"
"No."
"It looks kinda mean."
"It's Taikwon-do. It allows me to control my temper so I don't have to hurt people when I don't need to do so."
I nodded, satisfied. "There's peanut butter and homemade jam in grandma's fridge. Let's go!"