“Where in the world has Patrick been?”

This is a fantastic question that I’m sure no one was asking. I took a little hiatus from blogging to work on another project. Sorry, such is life. I’m sure you’ve been waiting on bated breath for my return. You may now breathe deeply, friend.

Two weeks ago (was it three? four? where am I? what year is this?) in Atlanta we had an unexpected snowfall. The whole country had snow actually but it was unexpected in Atlanta because we’re never expecting snow. That’s why we move here. No more snow. Needless to say, when snow does happen to us the entire city shuts down. There are probably 4 total snowplows in a 100-mile radius. This is the South; we simply refuse to play that game.

A few years ago Atlanta was severely screwed by not cancelling life in enough time when threatened with inclement weather. The event was dubbed ‘Snowpocalypse.’ People were stranded on snowy highways for 20+ hours because the entire city tried to dip out of work at the exact same moment. It was poor planning on our part. Ever since Snowpocalypse we’ve been overly skittish. Nowadays we’ve been known to cancel life when there’s simply cold rain. I call those “cold rain days.” No work. Just cold rain. It’s beautiful.

This time around it really was snow, the real kind, the snowy kind. We got a few inches and cancelled life. I was holed up in the apartment by myself because the roommate was staying at a friend’s place. Traditionally I’m someone who loves quiet, peace, and solitude but, by Day 2, I was going cuckoo. My cabin fever was real and I was getting restless. I felt trapped. Technically, I could have gone outside but remember when I said that it was cold? Yeah, so screw the outdoors.

On that second day, I invited a friend over to come workout at the gym in my building. I wasn’t willing to venture outside but I had no issue telling someone else to do it. (Side note: my middle school self would be shocked and horrified that a: I disliked sitting around doing nothing and b: was desperate to work out)

So friend comes over and we lift heavy things and talk about life. We chitchat the pros and cons of a narrow squat stance (again, plump middle school Patrick is freaking out about that). The workout we did after our lifting session was truly awful. My whole body hurt and I was dying. It was 8-minutes long. I was also dying of hunger. So to recap, I was dying of death AND of hunger, a double death. I had no food at the apartment because the previous day (snow day #1) was supposed to be grocery day. How unfortunate that snow day and grocery day fell on the same day. Coincidence or sabotage?

I look into the eyes of my friend and suggest, “Should we lunch?” The subtext was, “Can you drive me to get food because I’m dying and I refuse to take my 2007 Ford Focus out in these crappy Atlanta coldrainday/actualsnowday roads?” He agreed (brave soul) and off we go to scavenge for food. This is no easy task because the city has legitimately closed up shop. Most restaurants weren’t open. We eventually made our way to the only operational restaurant within 4 miles, The Szechuan Palace (not really the name). It was 3 p.m. and the place was packed. I thought, “Good for you Szechuan Palace, you better make that cold rain day money!”

As we partake we in all the Szechuany goodness, our conversation turns toward my Dad. My friend was apparently in the mood to dig around my soul, for reasons unbeknownst to me (though I suspect it was retribution for forcing him to drive). It’s not that I actively don’t talk about my dad. I just kind of accidentally don’t talk about him. Dead parents don’t always make their way into everyday conversation. This past November was his 5-year deathiversary, so enough time has passed that I can talk about him without instantly bursting into sobs.

We talked about my Dad and our relationship and his death and his work and his life and who he was. Basically we were snowed in at The Szechuan Palace so why not talk about death for a few hours. Coincidence or sabotage?

Ever since then, Dad has really been on my mind. It’s not that I actively don’t think about Dr. Donohue, I just kind of accidently don’t think about him. It’s probably more accurate to say that I don’t think deeply about him. He probably flashes into my brain with some regularity and consistency but he doesn’t stay long. He and I had a somewhat complicated relationship. I would like to say that ours was a typical father-son relationship but I don’t know what the typical father-son relationship looks like. I only had the one.

What I do know is that our relationship was built on immense love. My Dad, the sailor, stayed in St. Louis for 20 years, away from every source of water, just to raise his family. Love. His passion for and steadfast loyalty to my mom lasted until the day he died which showed me what that type of relationship should look like. Love. The man also sat through some of the worst theatrical productions in the history of the performing arts simply because I was on stage. That’s love, people!

The foundation was love. What was built on top of that, however, can largely be described as suspicion. The two of us were far more similar than either wanted to admit. We were both smart, story telling funnymen with lots of intuitive wisdom and a big heart. Yet we were both just rather cautious around each other, questioning the other’s intentions. The subtext of our conversations was always, why don’t you like me more? As hard as we tried, we never managed to figure each other out, a fact that will always frustrate and entertain me.

Our biggest struggle was communication. The abysmal way we communicated with each other was both the cause and the byproduct of our problems. We never learned how to talk to each other. This is especially perplexing because my Dad and I were/are great communicators, outside the context of our relationship. My dad, much like me, was someone who could talk to anybody. His interests were vast and varied. He could talk history, science, literature, culture, movies, sports (sorta), and music. He was smart, like off-the-charts smart. He was a natural teacher. He loved explaining and showing you things about the world. When it came to us, however, all of that went out the window.

My behavior was equally confounding. Most people know that I love to talk. It’s quite literally one of my favorite things to do. I love to hear and tell stories. I love laughter, hearing it and causing it and partaking in it. In spite of my faux-cynicism, I constantly crave to understand the world more. I’m a writer for god’s sake. Communication is my thing. But when it came to dad, it was like we spoke two different languages and there was no translator to be found.

Not all of our miscommunication was tragic and destructive. Sometimes it was plain ol’ funny.

Case and point: the boat.

My dad loved sailing.* He lived in St. Louis, MO for the better part of 20 years. For those who lack a geographical knowledge of the United States, St. Louis is decidedly not a sailing town. Nevertheless, when I was in middle school Dad purchased a 14-foot day sailer. That boat brought him more joy than just about anything. Every couple of weekends, he’d rope one of his offspring (usually me) into sailing. We’d hitch that boat to the minivan and drive an hour out to Creve Coeur Lake. Then we would launch the boat, make about 32 circles around the lake (it was small), and then go home.

When the boat wasn’t in use, which was 99.983% of the time, it lived in our backyard. It lived back there for two reasons: we were white trash and we had no other options. I also think it was so that Dad could look at it whenever he wanted. The thought of sailing was enough to sustain him between trips to the lake. That poor boat sat in an old carport that was next to the horse trough we used as a swimming pool and behind the sandbox that neighborhood stray cats pooped in. Again, we were mildly white trash.

When he didn’t have time to get to the lake, Dad would “fiddle” on the boat. He’d find any little excuse to spend time and commune with the boat. It was usually under the guise of rethreading some line or refolding the sails for storage or, god forbid, washing the damn thing. Working on that 14-foot piece of plexiglass brought him a silly amount of joy. Joy on joy.

It was a perfectly lazy spring day when Dad asked me to help him put the cover back on the boat. Sounds easy enough, right? That’s where you are mistaken, my fine reader. Nothing to do with the boat was ever easy. Not. Ever. The cover was possibly the most difficult thing of all the difficult things. It fit perfectly on there, i.e. it was snug as a bug in a rug. It was tight, real tight. You had lots of cut-outs and folds and grommets that needed to go over and around and through the right bolts and rigging and lines. Putting it on was a complicated process. Sometimes we’d just throw the thing on there as best we could and move on. Other times Dad was a little more particular. On this day, Dad was feeling particular.

So we get into our positions to put the cover on. He stands ground-level near the bow. The cover had to be attached bow-to-stern or front-to-back, otherwise things wouldn’t fit just right and the universe would be thrown into entropy. He would get the bow covered and hold it in place while I maneuvered the cover onto the stern. Teamwork makes the dream work.

So there I am, standing in the stern of the boat waiting for instruction. We had done this a few times but not frequently enough for either of us to recall the most efficient way. He gets the bow covered. Success. He gets all his bolts and lines and rigging covered. Then he passes the rest of the cover to me. I do my best to get the unwieldy thing on there. I have a couple of feet left to go when I get to a particularly odd flap. I freeze. I’m not exactly sure how this part goes on. The entire cover is a uniform shade of cobalt blue so things can be hard to decipher. I start getting confused. Dad waits for me to make a move. He starts getting tense. This is the conversation that ensues:

 

Dr. Donohue: That part goes around the boom crotch.

Little P.J. Donohue: **stares blankly**

Dr. D: Pat, the piece you have in your hand goes around the boom crotch.

LPJD: **continues staring in complete confusion**

Dr. D: The flap of cover that you have in your right hand? Put it around the metal boom crotch. It fits completely around it. Just wrap it around.

LPJD: What’s a boom crotch?

Dr. D: The boom crotch!

LPJD: I don’t know what–

Dr. D: The boom crotch!! You’re standing right next to it.

LPJD: **looks around at a boatful of stuff that he’s standing right next to**

Dr. D: The boom crotch, Pat!! THE BOOM CROTCH!!!

LPJD: I don’t know–

Dr. D: You have a crotch, do you not?!

LPJD: **silently nods not sure if that’s a rhetorical question**

Dr. D: Think about your crotch, Pat! Now look around you! What do you think the boom crotch is?!

LPJD: **looks around his feet seeing nothing that resembles his own crotch**

Dr. D: For the love of god! It’s the metal pole with the white plastic piece at the top that looks like a giant snowflake.

LPJD: **finds boom crotch**…oh…I see…**finishes covering up stupid boat**

 

There you have it, folks. Me and my dad in a nutshell. This exchange cracks me up and has basically become Donohue family lore. I love it because it encapsulates both the hilarity and frustration that were our misfires, one of the cornerstones of our relationship. Dad’s brain worked in a very specific way and so did mine. He wasn’t frustrated that it was taking forever to put the cover on. He was frustrated that I didn’t know what a boom crotch was. I, on the other hand, didn’t give a shit what a boom crotch was. I just wanted the cover on so I could go back inside and eat sugar. A scientist with an extensive boating vocabulary plus an overly-sensitive pubescent teenager didn’t always make for a good time.

But that’s who we were. In hindsight I realize neither of us gave up. We didn’t quit on each other. We always tried to meet in the middle. True, we were rarely successful but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was to always be trying, always striving for some connection, some meeting point. Sometimes we got there, sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes the closest we got was 14 feet away with a boom crotch in between.

 

*There will absolutely be more posts about my relationship with sailing. I may even write a book about it.