Dad's in charge for the day

There is no greater childhood memory than those days when Mom left us kids in the capable hands of Dad.

The only thing I can compare it to would be if Sheriff Andy Taylor left the good people of Mayberry for the day in the care of Deputy Barney Fife.

Okay, so Dad wasn't as together as Mom when it came to child-rearing. It didn't mean he loved us any less, just that he didn't quite have the practice at the Mommy tasks that she did. We still managed to grow into decent adults, so I don't think there was any lasting damage from spending a day or two in Dad's care. (Well, the jury's still out on my brother.)

A day with Dad in charge meant getting up and getting dressed for a day on the farm. The standard Mom-approved outfit for farmwork was usually my everyday boots, old patched up blue jeans and a T-shirt. Dad-approved outfits were essentially the first thing he grabbed out of the closet. This often resulted in the fashion faux pas of wearing red cowboy boots with yellow shorts and a green camouflage T-shirt. Thank Heaven I wasn't easily embarrassed as a child.

Morning chores with Dad, in the time before tractor jump seats, roll bars and seatbelts, meant riding around in his less than kid-friendly feed wagon or sorting cattle. You tend to learn quickly that mud will suck the boots right off of your feet if you're not careful in the bull pen. Often this portion of the day would end with Dad hauling me or my siblings out of the pen in our socks between fits of laughter, after we'd fallen face first into the muck.

Lunch time with Dad on these special days was a real treat for us kids. Rather than creating a home-cooked meal from scratch Dad had two options. A) Re-heat whatever nutritionally balanced casserole Mom had left for us, or B) drive into town for pizza and ice cream.

Guess which option usually won? Dad's theory was that pizza covers all the basic dietary needs, and ice cream is a dairy product. He may not be a nutritionist, but Dad can rationalize with the best of them.

Instead of my afternoon naptime, Dad would take me on a drive through the pasture to check fences and cattle. This also served as the "skills development" portion of our day--I learned to count by counting the cows on these excursions. We also worked on my color recognition. I could decipher black cows, green grass, blue sky, but defining the color of his rusted out calico beater pickup was usually beyond my reach.

Afternoons were also Dad's time to work on equipment . I could recognize a socket wrench by age 5 after so many afternoons "helping" Dad in the shop. I don't know how much help I really was, however. I do know that Mom tends to lose her cool when she comes home to find blue bearing grease all over my good jeans because Dad let me play with the grease gun.

Of course, kids being kids, there were the occasional temper tantrums and crying jags, but they didn't last long. Dad had no patience with that sort of nonsense. There were the few cuts and minor scrapes the come with farmwork, but Dad usually took care of those with his ever present first aid kit--a red handkerchief. There were few injuries that couldn't be taken care of with a splash of cold water out of the water jug and Dad's trusty hanky.

By the end of a day with Dad, us kids were usually messy and tuckered out, Mom was mostly sane again, and Dad was just amazed he'd made it through the day on his own.

So maybe our routine was jumbled for a day. Maybe our diets suffered a little. Maybe we came back with a few cuts and bruises.

Spending a day with my dad is still the best childhood memory of all.

Jennifer M. Latzke can be reached by phone at 620-227-1807, or by e-mail at jlatzke@hpj.com.

6/4/07

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