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Show 63 The first time we fought I was seventeen, taller than he was, big enough to hold my own. I had just been brought home by the police after getting in a fight outside the only bar in Pleasant Grove, Utah. I was ready for more. But I was surprised by my father's speed and strength as he pushed me against the wall in the comer of the living room. He asked, "Aren't you ashamed?" Then he claimed it would kill my mother to see what I was doing, so our story would be that I was just picked up for breaking curfew again. My father believed that the things you had faith in were stronger than the things you could explain. He was a real estate agent who didn't own much property, but he managed it well for others. He would respond to tenant complaints about leaky pipes and faulty swamp coolers by driving his track over and fixing them himself. I worked with my dad all summer when I was sixteen and hated driving the track. It had no power steering and could overheat at any time. I would complain about the things the tenants made us come fix: tree branches needing to be trimmed, the swamp cooler needing to be cooler. One 75 year-old tenant made us drive all the way through Provo Canyon to Heber because he was unable to interpret the thermostat, and wasn't responding well to the directions I gave him on the phone. He said, "You better just come up here and do it yourself." I complained. But my father knew that the drive up Provo Canyon was beautiful if you paid attention to it, though that isn't what he told me. What's to be said about something like that? My father knew that if the Lord wanted it, the person watching out the window would be moved. |