Guest writer

Have a hankie, son

Inside, no one can hear you sweat

He is always too busy and can never seem to get away. Our oldest son.

He and his wife moved to Dallas several years ago where she took a job at one of the countless medical centers there. I don't know if people there are sick all the time or what, but it seems like there is a medical center on every corner. Not merely your run-of-the-mill hospital, but a full-blown, multi-building campus. There must be a Texas law that allows them to charge double if they have the words "Medical Center" on their sign. You can stand at the intersection of just about any street and there they are with the other ubiquitous urban retail establishments: the corner Quickie Mart, the corner branch bank, the corner used-car lot, and the corner medical center.

After his wife settled into her new job and they got the kids started in school, he looked around for a good location to start his business. A motorcycle shop. He had just sold the one that he owned here and was flush with enough cash to make a substantial down-payment on a new facility.

That was almost 10 years ago. Today his business is thriving. Bikers from all over the North Dallas area flock to his shop. Grizzly, long-haired, bearded Harley dudes with fists the size of dinner plates and tattooed tree-trunk arms. Skinny crotch-rocket-riding kids in black T-shirts, black pants, black tennis shoes, and black leather gloves with the fingers cut out. Thirty-something Beemer-riding professionals with Gucci saddlebags designed to hold laptops, briefcases, Gucci business suits and Gucci purses (the 30-something male professionals ride Triumphs). And old geezers trying to squeeze one last mile out of their 1978 four-cylinder Honda 750 with a windshield the size of a Volks-wagen and a sissy bar big enough to bungee-strap five or six teddy bears dressed in cute little outfits.

And they all give him lots and lots of money.

I called him last month (as I do every summer), and invited him and the wife and kids to join us for a little vacation at the little beach house we rent on a little Florida beach near a little Florida town. He was about to launch his litany of excuses when I quietly said, "You have to come this year. I'm dying."

We met up at our little tin-roof beach shack (Joanne calls it a bungalow). The grandkids clambered up the sand dunes that separate the shack/bungalow from the beach and accidentally knocked over three or four of the "Keep off the dunes" signs. They shouted for me and Joanne to join them.

Their dad was preoccupied setting up two DVD players, three laptops, a Wii, two iPads, an Xbox 360, and a wireless router (whatever that is).

After we splashed around in the waves with the kids (being careful not to get Joanne's hair wet), we decided to walk to the local restaurant for a late lunch. I came out of our bedroom dressed in my Hawaiian shirt, Panama hat (with optional chin string), plaid Bermuda shorts, American knee-high white socks (with the red stripe on top), and black Italian wingtips (I like to dress with an international flair). I had my pocket comb and white handkerchief in my left back pocket and my well-worn wallet in my right, bulging considerably from all the cash I carry when we vacation.

Everyone was waiting for me on the porch. My son, barechested and barefooted in his knee-length baggy Jamaican swimsuit, was slipping his Visa card into his pocket. Everyone started to snicker. He was the loudest, trying his best to keep from exploding into laughter. He turned to the kids, shushing them, but simply couldn't contain himself.

I asked them what the heck was so darn funny.

"Dad, for crying out loud, we're at the beach. What's with the getup? Let me check your back pocket. I'll bet you even have THE hankie in there, don't you?"

I ignored him. Over the years I have become impervious to his generational disparagements.

As we walked to the restaurant, he lagged behind with me. When we were out of earshot of everyone he somberly asked, "Dad, what's all this dying stuff about? I didn't say anything to the kids."

"Son," I smiled, "I had to get your attention. You need to slow down and smell the roses. This is life--not a dress rehearsal. I just wanted you here this year. The dying stuff? Well, we all die just a little bit every day. Let's not accelerate the process. I'm fine."

He blinked. Our eyes locked for just a moment. But that's all it took. He got it. Then he stepped back and looked me up and down and started laughing again. "Just do me a favor and don't die in that getup. Okay, Dad?"

I laughed and brushed him off as we approached the restaurant. The waiter seated the five of us near the window so I could grin at my barechested, barefooted son standing on the hot boardwalk next to the sign that read, "No shirt ... No shoes ... No service. Cash only. No credit cards."

After the waiter brought us a cold beer, I took THE hankie out of my pocket and waved it at my son.

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Bill Rausch is a freelance writer from Little Rock. Email him at williamrausch25@yahoo.com.

Editorial on 08/23/2014

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