can't you smell that smell

Last week I commented on Facebook about my showering habits. This fueled a vigorous discussion led by my good friend Sam, who, during finals week of his last semester at Harvard Law School, went 100 hours without showering. He’s the smartest, stinkiest guy I know. I don’t take many showers these days. And occasionally I smell. I don’t care. I take that back, I do care. However, I know when and why I care and I shower accordingly. The rest of the time, I don’t care. Sorry guy in the library next to me. And thank you guy in the library behind me – your stench is a reprieve from my own tang.

As I sit here smelling myself, my olfactory senses whisk me back in time to the paternal smells of my childhood.

Regularity. Dad's bowels moved (your welcome, grandma) at precisely the same time, every day, for the first 17 years of my life. This coincided with my morning shower. I remember being shocked when using shampoo my first week of college. “Wait, shampoo smells good?”

Smoke. The people dad worked with, both his co-workers and his clients were surely chain smokers. All of them. And as my father listened to their problems, and said ‘yes’ to them more often than he should have, he also absorbed their smell. Every night, like clockwork, Dad came through the back door at 5:14pm. While my friends’ fathers were beginning their evenings at the bar, Dad came home smelling like one.

Wood. My father, as far as I can tell, has three real passions in his life. Family. Church. Wood. We’ve always had a wood burning stove in the northeast corner of the kitchen. And that stove is fueled by wood, which my father cuts with his own two hands (and a chainsaw). Because this love of wood was always preceded in priority by the first two passions, Dad only got to spend a handful of Saturdays a year in the woods for a marathon chainsaw fest. I didn’t join him on enough of these Saturdays, but when I did, or when I rode in his truck after one such marathon, the smell was wood. I have no idea what kind of wood (although I’m sure he told me…many times…in many different ways), but the smell was thick and delicious, and I never cared that I usually had saw dust in my eyes and was always WAY too hot in the kitchen during the coldest months of the year.

Sweat. When I had a job that required showers and suits, the kids would beg me to get out of my work clothes when I got home. They wanted me in a t-shirt and jeans, because that meant fun. My dad was the same way. I didn’t want the smoke. I’d already had my daily dose of poop. I could go to his truck for the wood. Sweat meant that Dad was home. The shirt was probably pulled from his gym bag where it had accompanied him on a sweaty dash ‘up’ the stair-master at the Jacksonville YMCA earlier that day (Exercise: passion number 4). No logos. Some holes. A mark where the pocket used to be. Relaxed and alive, Dad was home, and he was ours. And after he mowed the lawn, the sweat mixed with fresh cut grass to produce an earthy fragrance which to some would certainly be malodorous, but to me was life.

To the best of my knowledge, my father’s body has never been polluted by cologne, aftershave, or any anti-bacterial body wash. If it’s not a bar of plain Ivory, or Dr. Bronner’s magic, wordy, Jesus soap, Dad won’t touch it. His aura and his aroma are inextricably connected. And his aromas will be forever with me. A feat I may be unwittingly passing along to the next generation of Franz children. As it should be.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

alive

I never want to intentionally scare my children. I want them to fear me a little, but I never want to put any of our children in a position where they are scared for their lives. This doesn't make me a good dad. Rather it's proof that I have at least evolved to caveman: preserve and protect your progeny. We dashed this to pieces last week when, in an effort to serve our kids a good ol' fashion slice of Americana, we carted them off to Six Flags. We started out slowly: Thunder River. Log Flume. Kiddie Coaster. Then we progressed to the more aggressive rides: Ragin' Cajun. Lunar Blaster. And then, the Screaming Eagle. Brennan was already nervous in the line. He was watching people closely, trying to determine if they were preparing for death, or there to have a good time. He arrived at no conclusion by the time the safety bar snapped into place. As we click, click, clicked our way to the summit, Brennan refused to look right or left. He responded to my questions ("are you scared?" "see how small the people are?" "you know people don't fall out of these, right?") with a strained nod of the head, every muscle in his body rigid. As we screamed down the first descent, Brennan's face looked like this. After a quick jaunt up, during the second free fall he looked like this. I was fighting all of the Gs, straining my neck so that I could witness the horror I was inflicting upon my son. After the corkscrew, I was convinced that our relationship was damaged beyond repair. I don't even have an image for that face. We had progressed beyond horse in the car and swamp warrior holding a baby (ok, I'm definitely better than those parents). The ride didn't scare me a bit. I was too scared of what the ride was doing to my relationship with Brennan to notice that my stomach was inside out.

As we came to the screeching halt, and eased our way back into the port, I nervously looked over at my typically confident, completely sure of himself, son. He was white as a sheet. His hair was wind blown straight up. His eyes were as big as a cartoon owl's, and they were filled with tears. I said nothing. I waited for him to make the first move. Would it be anger? Regret? A tirade about me pushing him to do things beyond his ability? Whatever, it is, just let it be...I can't stand the silence! Without turning towards me, or changing his expression, he opened his little mouth, and uttered, "I feel so alive." Sigh of relief. Sweet victory. That's my boy! "See! Isn't it great to overcome something difficult!? Just doing it! Yes!" "No," he replied. "I feel so alive, because I'm not dead. And I really thought I was going to die." "Oh. Right. Yes. It is good that we are not dead." More silence. Then he looked at me and smiled. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the head. I felt so alive.

I would include Zoe in this post, but she didn't provide anything exploitable. She got on every roller coaster her 43 inches would allow, and simply rocked it, screaming and smiling the entire time. Including The Demon, which caused me to almost puke, and walk around dazed for a good 10 minutes afterwards. While upside down on The Demon Zoe had the gumption to look directly at me and laugh out loud, hysterically. She too was alive. Just a different kind of alive than her older Brother.