It was crowded at Onie’s, the lakefront hamburger joint.
This was a regular stop on our family boating excursions on the large lake we
loved so much. The lake boasted 525
miles of shoreline full of deep coves to explore. Dad was always Captain. We would seek out
glass surfaced coves for skiing and private spots to anchor and swim. We would beach the boat on sandy, wooded
islands and spend time hanging out with other boating enthusiasts. Mom might
pack a picnic, or we would head to Onie’s place.
Dad had mastered the skill of smoothly docking the boat. My
job for as far back as I can remember was to jump out of the boat onto the dock
and grab the handrail on the bow to make sure we stopped in just the right
place. I knew how to do a quick and neat
tie-off on the dock’s cleats. Boat secured, we headed into the grill pronounced
Oh-Nies. That’s a long I and accent on first syllable.
Mom secured a table for us.
525 miles of shoreline and only two places you could dock your boat and
eat! It was packed and I was around ten
years old. I was painfully shy. I don’t
mean to be cliché. It actually caused me physical pain to move outside my
comfort zone and talk to strangers. My
stomach would clench, I would get shaky, and my muscles would tense. My mother would gently ask that I say hello
to whoever was addressing me, but my throat would dry up. She would usually answer for me to save me
the distress.
I walked to the counter with Dad. He always placed the
orders. He rattled off what the others wanted
and then turned to me and said, “Tell him what you want.” Surprised that Dad
was not ordering for me, my throat closed. There were people waiting behind
us. The short order cook was busy
flipping burgers and dropping baskets of fries. The order taker looked
impatiently at me as I remained silent.
Dad knew what I wanted. I looked at him with pleading eyes. He ordered
for me.
Relief. Ahhhh. I can breathe.
We sat at the table and talked happily. I absorbed the
excitement of people happy to be boating after long work weeks. The place was jammed
and you would have to turn sideways to make your way between folks to leave, or
use the restroom, or make your way to the counter.
The previously impatient counter guy shouted out our order number. Dad squeezed his way through the crowd of
hungry boaters to get the tray of food. He returned and Mom distributed the
burgers, fries, and hot dogs.
I was a picky eater.
When Dad had ordered my burger he had clearly said “No Onions”. As usual
I immediately unwrapped the sandwich and opened the top bun to check that they
got it right. Nope. There on top of the
meat was my standard mustard and catsup with tiny chopped up onions inextricably
mixed in. I complained out-loud to my parents. Mom said to just scrape them
off. Ugh, that never worked. “I can’t eat this”, I said.
Then it happened. My father looked directly at me and said,
“Take it back”. What? He wanted me to go
through that crowd of impatient and hungry people and ask for a new burger??
Yes, he did. I pleaded with my father to
do it for me. I think that with my
freeze-up at the counter being fresh in his mind, Dad decided this was a
teachable moment. He said that everyone
else was happily enjoying their food and if I wanted to take the sandwich back,
I would have to do it myself. Mom tried to volunteer to do it for me. Dad drew a line in the sand. I was near
tears. And then he said something that has stuck with me to this day.
Still looking directly into my eyes, Dad firmly said,” LeGette,
you have to assert yourself.” He continued on with some tough love advice. “Have
some self-confidence. They got your order wrong. Make them fix it. You are going to have to stand up for
yourself for the rest of your life. You can start now.”
I can’t say I was happy. Or that it was easy. I slid sideways
between people and went to the counter, burger in hand, and shoved it forward.
Impatient guy, “What’s wrong with it?”. I squeaked out “onions”. He grabbed
back the sandwich, chunked it in the trash, and hollered out to the cook,” Hey
idiot, I wrote NO ONIONS on this order!”.
Wow. That felt kind
of good. They quickly corrected the
issue. I returned to the table with new
sandwich in hand. Dad gave me a big smile and said, “Way to go, buddy!”. Now
that felt great. My father is a master Dad.
Through the years he would use a similar method to show me
how to navigate life. To be confident. To be a man. To be kind, but to stand up
for myself.
Thank you Dad.
