Sunday Newscape Magazine

I spent the holidays in a log cabin in the woods. It’s a cozy place my father built with his own hands, using trees he cut down on his own land. Being able to use a phrase like “built with his own hands” feels old-fashioned and honest, reassuring sentiments in this unsavory season of bailouts and billions, shysters and scoundrels. It certainly helped to boost my Christmas spirit.

My dad spent months sweating and sawing, chopping and chinking while he built the cabin. My mother would point out that she made this effort possible by keeping my dad well-fed and by offering valuable, if usually unsolicited, advice. I was able to visit my parents a couple of times during construction, and I too offered the occasional bit of advice, but mine was not valuable, and it was definitely not solicited.

Mostly, though, I stood back and watched my dad work while I talked his ear off, which has been my assigned role in the family since childhood. It’s a function I’ve always performed very well. Whenever we went on a road trip and we were traveling at night, it was my job to sit right behind my dad (back before there were seatbelts in the backseat) and chatter in his ear so he wouldn’t fall asleep while driving. My goal was not only to keep him awake but to make him laugh, and I worked hard at being amusing. In the darkness, I could just make out the side of his face by the dashboard lights. When I saw it crinkle in a smile, I always felt triumphant. It didn’t take much to make me happy then.

Even when we’ve grown into adults and believe we’ve put away childish things, we easily slip back into those entrenched positions of our youth. It was natural, I suppose, that I would babble on while watching my dad at work on the cabin a few years ago. I worked as hard as ever to make him laugh, throwing out one amusing aside after another. But Dad proved to be a tough audience. His face didn’t crinkle even once. In fact, he seemed rather annoyed by my prattle.

So I switched tactics. I’d done some reading on cabin construction, and as usual, I’d retained just enough information to be dangerous. I made what I thought were intelligent comments about bark peeling and dovetail log notches. My father merely grunted and kept working, apparently not in the mood to chat. Feeling a little desperate, I pointed to the massive log that was the main center roof support and asked some inane question about the “ripple pole.”

My dad’s face crinkled so much I thought it was going to splinter into pieces, and he roared with laughter. See, it’s called a ridge pole, not a ripple pole. I’d like to say I purposely mispronounced it, but that would be a big, fat lie. And I did finally get my dad to laugh.

Naturally, whenever the family gets together at our cabin, I am the butt of numerous “ripple pole” jokes.   Everyone laughs heartily at my expense, and happiness “ripples” through us. I can live with that.

 © Jackie Papandrew 2008, All Rights Reserved