A Rambling Raconteur

There are many things I don't remember about the time right around when my father passed away in September of 2007. My memory gets a little fuzzy around the edges and the timeline of events gets screwed up. I've lost days and weeks from that year. But, mercifully, I do remember one thing with absolute clarity: I remember the last conversation I had with my dad.

It was Tuesday. I was walking around campus. I had been to the bookstore earlier that day and had bought him a present. I don't remember where I was going, but I decided to give him a call and tell him what I got for him. (His side of this phone call is in bold.)

>Hey Daddy! I bought you a present today!

> What'd ya get?

> A book. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."

> Oh, cool! I've always wanted to read that.

> Good! I'll give it to you when I get home, okay?

> You can read it when I'm done.

> Sounds good. I love you.

> I love you too.

> Bye.


Yeah. He had a terrible habit (one my brother tends to share) of hanging up the phone once I said goodbye! Eh, I didn't mind. And I still don't. I don't mind that we didn't get "to say goodbye." Because the last thing my father ever said to me was that he loved me.

I read the book I bought him. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." It's good. It's about a guy's theory that his practice of taking care of his motorcycle himself is what truly allows the motorcycle to be his and for him to enjoy it. How fitting, seeing as how I'm still learning from my father that we can't expect everyone to take care of everything for us.

He taught me how to shine my shoes, how to check the oil in my car, how to put a new seat on a bicycle, how to use a record player (and just generally have good taste in music).

That last one I think has stuck with me more than most. Dad's favorite musician was Bruce Springsteen, known as "The Boss." A year or so ago I wrote this poem about my dad and about Bruce Springsteen. (I'm fairly certain that as a young child that I thought they were one and the same, but that's beside the point.) Enjoy.


The Boss
a poem by Sarah Wofford


From inside the womb
was heard a rhythm,
a gentle thump
that sounded like
Nebraska.

She emerged from the darkness
into a familiar stranger's
waiting hands.
Callused palms that cradled her
as he swayed and sang
about a dead dog
who existence
would always bring a tear to her eye.

Together they would
sing the songs
of this six-string guitar god,
some lower deity
descended from Elvis's Mt. Olympus.
They sang of velvet rims,
yellow men,
and racin' in the street.
And no one could touch them.

Not illness nor death,
nor the thick Jersey air.

They were tramps.
Together.
Born to believe.