My Father, The Tennessee River, and Lucky Charms

When I was nineteen, I was sent to live with my father, Ralph, in Chattanooga, Tennessee. My parents had been divorced for a few years but Ralph had been divorced from our family for even longer. My mother, Licia, felt I needed to spend time with him. She always had conservative morals and tended to be fearful of the darkness. She was hoping the time I would have down there would straighten me out. My late teenage years were riddled with debauchery. 

I was on summer break from college in Richmond, VA. A year prior to me losing my mind in Virginia's capital, I was adjusting the royal blue feathery plume on my high school marching band uniform before stylishly stepping on the gridiron with my Mellophone angled to a triumphant ninety-five degrees. Since then, my life had changed. My hair was long and my scraggly teenage beard unkempt. My mother was concerned about where my money was coming from, where my pupils had gone, and why I seemed to be the only freshman to lose the “freshman fifteen”. I lived life recklessly and wildly until a set of flashing light caught up with me. When I was released from jail Licia came to pick me up, my scrawny and exhausted body had fallen asleep in the cemetery across the street from the Warren County Jail. I think the image of myself lying face down amongst the dead frightened my mother enough to get my father involved.

My father and I weren’t particularly close growing up. He spent most of his time on business trips and I spent most of my time developing hobbies and interests he couldn’t possibly relate to. I wore all black for a few years, secretly wearing nail polish and eyeliner, you know, every father’s dream for his son. Through most of my formative years we stayed distant. I still remember playing with him when I was really young. He taught me how to button hook and shake a man’s hand. But ever since fifth grade graduation, we were each on our own.

I never held any bitterness towards him. Perhaps, it was because I was so violently different from him. Or maybe we were more alike than I could've ever understood. Maybe I never resented him because we were and still are so similar that it was never hard for me to see things from his eyes. More so than anyone else in my family, his actions always flowed logically to me. Whereas my mother and sister would be flabbergasted by his betrayals and my brother would be lonesome for his hero; to me he was always just another man on this Earth, figuring it all out with the rest of us.

All in all, my time with him wasn’t ever stressful. He stayed busy with his job and I stayed busy looking for a straight source of income and befriending whomever would talk to me. In the evenings we often went out to eat together. I gained some weight back because of our frequent dinners of fried catfish and burgers from the local sports bar. Seldom did we talk about our relationship. I don’t think either of us really wanted to. We both just wanted to make memories of summer spent together.

On this morning, I had poured myself a big bowl of Lucky Charms and sat shirtless facing the Tennessee River. My father emerged freshly showered and dressed for a day in corporate America. He sat down next to me with his coffee.

“What are you doing?” He said while staring into my bowl.

“Eating cereal.” I said bluntly.

“Yea, obviously Anthony. But the way you’re doing it…” I knew immediately what he was talking about. You see, when I eat Lucky Charms (or anything with dehydrated marshmallows. Which if you purchase dehydrated marshmallows separately and just add them in, could be any cereal) I carefully spoon out and eat all the regular cereal first. It takes patience, you don’t want to eat any marshmallows preemptively. It takes a skillful spoon navigator to pull this off. But when you do, you’re rewarded with the best prize of all: those last few spoonfuls of pure marshmallow and sugary milk.

I explained my Lucky Charms system to him. He smiled, amused and sipped from his off-white mug. “You know, Anthony, working and making sacrifices is called ‘delayed gratification’ and it’s a sign of maturity.”

“Ah, I haven’t heard of that before.” I replied while avoiding a shooting stars, red balloons and horseshoes like the plague. Then, a rare moment of intimacy.

“I’m very proud of you. You’ve grown up a lot on your own. I’m happy you’re here. If you're searching for a job with the same discipline that you eat your breakfast, I’m sure you’ll be successful.”

“uhh thanks Dad.” I awkwardly accepted his compliment. I peered from my cereal to see him looking straight at me. Something about his gaze made me reiterate my response and sit up straight. “Really, thanks Dad.” I wanted to mirror his masculine conviction. We both admired the moment, then in unison, looked back towards the river.

He finished his coffee. After a casual goodbye I was left alone again, facing the river with my last few glorious bites of cereal before me. I smiled, not because I was tilting the off-white bowl to my face, sipping the rainbow tinted milk, but because I was thinking of my Dad, probably listening to Bruce Springsteen on his way to the office. I’m not sure if he appreciated the humor in complimenting my “maturity” while I was eating a bowl of sugary Lucky Charms to start my day, like a child. I smiled because I understood what he meant. I understood it had nothing to do with the hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers or balloons. It was about us; having breakfast together in all of it’s mundane beauty. Lucky Charms are no way for a proper adult to start his day, the same way I’m sure the coffee on his empty stomach didn’t end play well either, for God's sake eat some toast and fruit too. But in the same humorous way, I was proud of him too.