“Come here. I want to show you something,” dad said as he ducked his head to descend the basement stairs. I hesitated. The basement always made me wheeze. I don’t know whether it is the musty air or the film of dust that silhouettes every forgotten object, but something down there makes my lungs close. After a moment of reliving the sense memory of an asthma attack, I had no choice but to plunge into it face first. At the bottom of the stairs I tripped over several life-size, plastic shepherds left over from the christmas nativity scene, landing on my bad left knee. I glanced at the figures, seeing no one else on which to vent my annoyance, “Way to do your job, boys.”
Though I had avoided going into the basement for almost three whole years, it did not look smaller, as most places do as I continue to grow. The long hallway leading to dad’s storage room maintains the same hollow creepiness which would serve well as the setting of some horror movie about a psychotic-butcher. This image made my skin crawl as I entered the glow of the single light-bulb overhead. To my left, distorted by the yellowish tinge of the ancient light, was my tee-ball glove on top of a long refrigerator box. Tee-ball? I never got my consolation trophy at the end of the season. Asthma made me quit, even before the all-star break.
I pressed on. I found him leaning on the workbench at the far end of his domain, drenched in the harsh glow of the overhead lamp. He was examining an album cover as I approached.
He turned as I approached and, standing twice my size, said, “Son, look at this.” He handed me the album; it’s surface so glossy in the light that I was expecting it to be wet when I palmed it. It was Thriller, a signed copy, no visible fingerprints on it. The crown jewel in his large collection. “I’m more proud of that there than just about anything,” he said, beaming and shaking his head. “Except, of course, maybe you. I’m pretty damned proud of you.” With that he nudged the back of my head affectionately. I looked around at the expanse of crates on and under the workbench. Thousands of records which had taken him years to collect.
I felt the troubled look wash over my face. Fortunately, dad broke the silence. “Sure are a lot of them, I know.” I looked him in the eyes, my own watering. “Don’t you fret. You’ll have a collection to be proud of someday. It just takes time.” He smiled and this time gently scratched my head with his large, healthy hand. A tear fell to the floor. I couldn’t wait to be large.
