My Dad's Work

For as long as I can remember, my dad has created things. I’d mention in passing that I needed another shelf in my bedroom. A few weeks later, he’s showing me a sketch he made of a box shelf that he conceptualized completely on his own. A couple more weeks and he has me out in the garage with him, painting the finished product. My brother wanted a life-size Connect4 game; with the combined efforts of my brother and his friend – the muscle – and my dad – the mastermind – they had a life-size Connect4 with personalized tokens. Tell my dad you need something, even if you don’t know exactly what you want it to look like, and he’ll find a way to build it.

We were living in Texas at the time. My dad had come home from a long business trip, fifteen months long, and I snatched every chance I got to spend time with him. Our house in Texas wasn’t pretty, but it fit the bill and our needs. We made it work, as we made them all work. Location, big enough for the seven of us, and not hideously old or decrepit. When your dad is a Soldier in the Army, you quickly learn that home is not the house, but wherever your loved ones happen to land. Wherever the Army sends you, wherever the mission is. 

I walked out into the garage – the hum and hiss of power tools had announced his whereabouts. My dad, bent over his workbench, the chewing power saw spinning sawdust into the air over his broad shoulders. I sat on the bench to wait until he was done.

“What are you making?”

He looked up at me and smiled before holding up the 2x4 he’d cut to size. “Just playing around.”

For those of you keeping track, my dad didn’t play around. He mowed the lawn to play around. He remodeled the bathroom to play around. He worked, and it was his play.

“Need help?”

“Sure.” He passed me a piece of sandpaper, showed me the edge of the 2x4 to sand down, and worked on the other edge across from me.

My dad wasn’t quiet, but he wasn’t talkative, either. If you asked him a question, he’d answer it. How long he answered depended on what you asked him about. Ask him how his day at work was, you’d get the classic, nondescriptive “Good.” Usually meaning it wasn’t so good. Ask him about politics or foreign policy, and you’d find yourself a good forty minutes later, three topics over, still talking.

I’ve never been good at reading silence, when it needs to be broken or left to rest. But when my dad and I were intent on a project – sanding, staining, shaping – the silence was just right.

After our first plank was sanded and smooth, I set it aside and held a long pole steady while his power drill sliced it in half, and we sanded the ends again, laying the three identical pieces on the garage floor.

We fell into a comfortable rhythm, me holding the wood planks steady while my dad cut them to size, then we sanded them together. Once we had finished, I looked at the array of pieces on the floor, trying to see some creation out of this that I know my dad could see in his head. He picked up two of the pieces, one with a slanted edge, and showed me how they should line up.

“I think this should work,” he said, squinting at the wood in his hands.

“It looks good,” I added helpfully, but we both knew that I didn’t know anything about carpentry.

The thing is, my dad, by all rights, shouldn’t know anything about carpentry, either. As far as I know, his only exposure to woodwork was shop class in school. But somewhere along the way, he apparently picked it up. The way he can conjure up a concept with nothing but a vague description has never ceased to amaze me.

“Now we stain,” he said cheerfully, slipping around the car to pass me a can of stain and two paintbrushes.

“You trust me to stain?” I asked teasingly, holding up the paintbrushes.

“I don’t know yet,” he responded, and I laughed.

I’m usually the messy one in my family. Not clumsy, but I’m impatient and I tend to go faster than I should, resulting in a few healthy spills. But when we were out in the garage together, my dad trusted me to do almost anything he would, short of handling his table saw. Besides, I certainly didn’t inherit my fast-paced work ethic from my mom.

We laid out packing paper – of which there’s a massive stack stored in the basement for projects just like this – and each of us took one of the wood pieces, carefully dipping our brushes in the stain and turning to our work.

“Nice, long strokes,” he reminded me, his voice soft. This time between us was precious, almost a reverent silence as we relished this Saturday afternoon of just the two of us and the work before us. “Don’t overpaint.”

I nodded with a smile, watching his hands cradle the paintbrush and guide it through smooth, practiced strokes. I imitated his movement. Gently up, gently down. Gently up, gently down.

We worked together in silence for a while, staining each piece at a time.

I wished I could ask him what his trip was like, but even if I asked, I knew he wouldn’t be able to answer. I understand how OPSEC works. So instead I started to tell him about school, about the random things that, when he was gone, seemed important but didn’t fit into an email. For as long as I can remember, and for as long as any of my siblings can remember, my dad’s job has caused him to go on several business trips, some just a week or so, but some of them were a year and a half. Missing Christmas, birthdays, graduations. But that wasn’t the hardest part – the hardest part was the everyday moments that wouldn’t have made the scrapbook, but were the heartbeats and snapshots that were all the more significant because they were just instants.

The afternoon passed between first, second and third coats of staining. Thanks to the extended daylight of summer, we finally began to assemble the pieces into the finished product, one nail at a time. My job was to hold the wood steady so the power drill could drive the screws in straight. My hands were never steady, but between a sheer force of will and careful concentration, I was able to do okay. Even when I messed up, my dad would shrug it off, take the screw out, and we’d do it again.

This time felt like a safe space, where anything was possible. Anything could emerge from these wooden slats and anything could emerge from the silence between us.

The sun had set and the light was fast disappearing, turning the world soft and gray and murky. We worked in the square of light on the driveway from the garage lights and moved a little faster. It would be dinnertime any minute, and things would go back to the way they were before.

“Done!” my dad said triumphantly as the last screw settled into place. I smiled and leaned back on my heels, waiting for the moment of reveal as he stood it up.

It was a stand, a little shorter than me, balanced on two legs with three slats running vertically to a crossbar at the top.

He grinned at me, waiting for me to ask.

I smiled back and obeyed. “What did we make?”

“A stand for my Kevlar.” He stepped back into the garage and returned a moment later, carrying his Kevlar armor.

I helped him arrange the chest piece so the shoulders sat on the crossbar. We placed the helmet on the back slat that stood higher than the crossbar and stood back to admire our work.

“We did good,” I said proudly.

He laughed. “Like it?”

“Brilliant.”

The door to the house opened, spilling out new light and fresh noise. “Dad, Mary, it’s time for dinner!” my older sister called.

“Coming!” my dad shouted back. He looked down at me and we shared a smile. “Let’s clean up.”

It was fast work, dragging his workbench back into place, replacing his tools on their rack on the wall. Sweeping up the sawdust and gathering the fallen nails. Carrying our handiwork into the garage.

“Thanks for your help, Mar,” my dad said, as we admired the stand one last time.

“Of course,” I answered eagerly, hoping he knew that it hadn’t felt like work.

He grinned, and I knew he did.

“Come on, let’s eat.”

I followed him to the door and paused to hit the garage door button. I waited for it to close, my gaze sliding back to the stand. To the Kevlar armor and helmet that I knew he had worn before. And that I knew he would have to wear again.

We’ve moved six times since then, from Texas to Rhode Island to a house in Virginia, then a townhouse in Maryland, then a big house in Maryland, then a big house in Virginia, and finally, to Virginia house where we live now, the first home my parents have ever bought. We’re settling down for the first time since they got married, putting down roots. A few years ago, we didn’t even know what that meant.

We still don’t, really. Summer rolls around, and I get the old, familiar itch to travel someplace and move somewhere new. When you’ve moved over fifteen times in your twenty-two years, it takes a while for old habits to die hard.

Two years ago, my dad retired. John Strycula, Colonel in the United States Army, thirty years of service.

And that stand in the garage still holds his Kevlar, but I never forget to say thank you that he never has to wear that armor again and we never have to worry whether or not he’ll make it home again. And when I remember that, the old itch fades a little and I remind myself how pretty our house – our forever home – is.

Winter 2021