Dad Mountain

Mytikas peak of Mount Olympus, Wiki Creative Commons, Stolbovsky

By Amy Martin

My dad was a big guy. He wore boxer shorts and my gal pals and I would appropriate a pair and each take a leg, running around the house like a four-legged monster. He loved it. The man hated wearing pants. As soon as he was home, they were off revealing the big boxers.
Over and again, folks at my high school 50th reunion recalled how after ringing the doorbell, they’d hear his large body stomping down the hall. Sometimes the sound of it would send them fleeing. The door would fling open and there his 6 foot 2 pale well-padded self would be in his white boxer shorts and t-shirt. “She’s in the backyard. She’s always in the backyard. Go through the gate.”
The door would slam and he’d thunder back down the hall to the den and enshrine himself in his easy chair with the ottoman. He had a great view through the double sliding glass doors overlooking the backyard along a creek. The chihuahuas would resume their spots wedged on either side of him, squashed by his royal plumpness to where only their heads would show, like strange pointy-eared gargoyles.
He’d resume his position, with a spread of solitaire cards on the ottoman, and light his pipe, filling the room with a floating layer of smoke that hovered just above his head like Zeus on Mount Olympus. The kids would peak through the glass and marvel at “old man mountain.”