Whistling

My father was a whistler. Just like the drawings he used to make--he called them doodles--whistling was somewhat of a gift. Some might call it a talent.

My father never considered himself good at anything. Which is kind of funny, because he was. He was always very hard on himself because he never finished high school. But he was probably the smartest person I know (I just sat here for a few moments and pondered over the word "know." I'm not sure if I should use the word "knew" because he is dead, or if "know" works because I believe that he is still the smartest person know...see I did it again). He'd talk your ear off about politics, about the Constitution, about gun laws, about his right and wrong. Smart.

I take after my father in a few things. Cooking is one of them. He was the one who did most of the daily cooking in our house. Mostly because he got home from work before my mom did, but I think he liked it as well. It was a form of creation for him; an art form. And boy was he creative when it came to food. He never followed a recipe. Ever. He'd simply see what we had in the house and mix things together. I can't think of a time when he made something I didn't like.

Eating would be another thing. Growing up, the rule was we had to try everything before we were allowed to discount it as being good. Liver and onions, for instance. I loved it as a kid and still enjoy it today as an adult (although it's been a long time since I have eaten it). We had to try it all and because of that, I am pretty open to trying new things and there are very few things I won't eat.

Many of my similarities seem to revolve around food. I can't draw, and there's no way I whistle anywhere near to the quality my father did. He was a genius when it came to whistling. He'd do it without even knowing he was. It was something he did, though, while he was occupied doing something else. Cutting the lawn, driving the car, cooking. This was when he whistled. And it wasn't anything simple coming from his lips. They were complicated tunes; nothing familiar, all composed on the fly.

My father would even whistle for us when it was time to come home. It was a powerful sound, recognizable from blocks away. Our friends would hear it too, telling us it was time to go home. His whistle was all lips too. None of this, two fingers from each hand shoved in his mouth thing. He'd purse his lips, blow, and make wonderful music.

I wish I could whistle like my father. If not just to remember, but for the possible good memory I could pass along to my children.