Dances and Rhythms - 5

Dances and Rhythms - 5

     Before WWII, prior to the advent of television, my parents relied on radio for entertainment and inspiration. Throughout their married life, my mother Iva tended to the needs of home and family while my father, Carl scraped a living from the coal-smoked town of East Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  I remember one day in the mid-eighties in October, when I was in my late 30's.  I'd planned to drive my father to the pharmacy and arrived early at his unusually stuffy trailer.  Droplets from his steamy shower hung in the air as I entered.  The smell of Mennen aftershave lingered. My father seemed to manage well on his own in spite of the fact that he had been twice widowed.  "Hi Daddy," I said.  "Mornin'" he mumbled, looking up.  Dad buttoned his grey work shirt then grabbed his glasses and sweater from the bedroom.  His eye sockets were pasty white where his smoke-rimmed glasses blocked the sun.  The rest of his upper body was darkly tanned as though he were full-blooded American Indian rather than one-eighth Seneca. I approached the kitchen sink for a glass of water.  Heat pumped furiously from the vent just below my feet.  A small greasy pan, a spatula and a few ham bits rested in the porcelain sink below.  I moved them before turning on the water and reaching for a glass. With autumn on its way, Dad had the heater set to 80 degrees.  I was burning up.  At least the water was cold.  I slurped down a full glass and went for more.  Dad, well into his eighties and depended on family to take him for groceries and medicine.  This day he was out of heart medicine.  While we waited for the doctor to phone in a prescription, he told me the story of how Westinghouse Electric had hired him as a teen...