My father spoke a million words to me through his eyes, which is as well because he rarely spoke to me or anyone else in words. He was a very quiet man, but his silence always seemed to me to be one of contentment; a positive silence rather than a negative one, if you get my drift.
He had, I suspect, very sexy eyes. But I prefer not to go there. It makes our eye contact intimacy seem somehow slightly incestuous, so let's just say he had very expressive eyes. I really could read them like a book. It was only in recent years that I began to wonder if he could read mine as eloquently. I hope so. I think, perhaps just because I want to think, that it must have been so. That wonderful eye-conversation that I remember couldn't have been one-way, or worse still imaginary, could it?
His ocular eloquence shared with me his joy in newborn puppies or kittens - common creatures in my childhood, before prevention became a necessity. It also conveyed the beauty he saw in a sleek new car, and heard in it's purring engine. In a time and place when foxes were only good for shooting, I remember us going out one snowy morning and finding a fluffy red fox curled under the holly bush. Dad put a hand gently on my arm to stop me going any closer, gestured with his head towards the animal, and said, with his eyes: Just look at the beauty of that creature. Just look! If we leave very quietly maybe he'll stay there. In unison we backed silently away and returned to the house. I thought he would take Mom to look. But his eyes said, you give your mother this special gift. YOU take her and show her. Which I did, and by some miracle the fox was still there, though at my mother's squeak of delighted surprise, he left; a sleek red streak across the snow.
When it was time to kill an old hen for the pot, Dad's eyes screamed at me. I can't do it! I can't. But why? they begged. Why? I'm a MAN. I'm supposed to do it. Then they whispered. I'm ashamed. My mother did it many times. Why can't I? I do so hope that my eyes replied. I fervently hope that he read in them: I'm proud that you can't kill things. I love you for it. And the last thing I want you to be is anything like your mean hateful mother!
What I said, in words, was, 'I'll get Mr. Jones.'
Jack Jones was our neighbor, a farmer well versed in the killing arts. I knew he would do it without a second thought and without any judgmental commentary. My dad worked tirelessly to keep Mr. Jones's ancient tractor running and was owed a few favors.
As I left I couldn't manage to escape my father's eyes, now brimming with apology.
Sorry love, they said, I'm even too ashamed to ask him myself. I have to send you to do it for me.
Our very best eye-chats always involved my mother; completely unbeknownst to her. I firmly believe that not once in her entire life did she catch on to our endless silent conversations, so often with her as their subject. Many were variations of a single theme - don't let Mum know how unsuccessful are most of her efforts at handicrafts, cooking, etc
For example. After weeks, months, of agonized efforts, my mother has finally finished knitting me a pair of gloves.
'There!' she cries, triumphantly, dropping them on my lap.
The day I have dreaded has arrived.
One quick glance tells me they don't look exactly like a pair. I glance desperately at my father and immediately my dread turns to an almost uncontrollable need to giggle.
Go on. Be brave, his twinkling brown eyes instruct me. Maybe it's not as bad as it looks. Though ... they continue ..... I rather think it might be!
But not a WORD, they continue, the now stern gaze increasing my urge to giggle.
And show some gratitude, they conclude.
'Ooooh, Mum, thank you thank you,' my five-year-old voice squealed in excitement as I hugged her. She tssk'd me away as if it had only been an hour's effort and wasn't worth mentioning.
Unable to come up with further delaying tactics, I sat back down and picked up the gloves. I began to pull one on my left hand, then decided the other must be the left. But was it? I glanced anxiously into those eyes across the hearth.
Steady as you go, they said. Easy does it. Don't forget to smile.
Carefully I urged my little hand into the even littler glove. It was very tight and as it stretched it displayed a dropped stitch right in the center of the palm.
There! said my dad's eyes, triumphantly. Now you'll always know which is the left!
The anxiety fled and the giggles returned.
I wriggled my fingers, with considerable effort, into the too-tight, too-short finger tubes.
Oh well, not so bad, I replied silently. At least I hope I did. I couldn't do this without you: your wonderful love and humor, I hope I added.
But that left the thumb. Where was it to go? I slithered my thumb around, searching for a hole. Ah! There! No, that was the dropped stitch in the palm. After what seemed like minutes, I managed to jamb my thumb into a distorted and very miss-located little tube, causing considerable discomfort.
Triumphantly I held my gloved hand out in front of me, the way ladies of old do when trying on soft, leather, hundred-dollar gloves in the movies. My dad and I both beamed at my mother.
'By 'eck,' said my father, driven, I think, by true admiration for both Mum and me, though for different reasons.
He beamed encouragement at me. One down and one to go! said the eyes.
Turned out, the right hand was easy. It was huge.
'I thought perhaps I got the other just a bit too small so I added a few stitches.' Mum announced proudly.
My hand was lost in the wide woolly spaces. How would I ever keep it on? If I wore it I would lose it the first day.
Doesn't matter, Dad's eyes replied, you know neither of us wear your mother's creations once we're out of sight. You'll just put them in your pocket and have cold hands. Like we always do.
Dad and I gazed at each other in mutual satisfaction.
Driven to verbosity for the second time in two minutes, he avowed, 'That's grrrrand!'
My happiest memories, and in fact the majority of all my memories, of my father, are centered on what I now see as a true gift we had in our silent communication. Without it, I wonder now, how would I ever have known my silent father? Perhaps we developed it because of his lack of words? I shall never know, just as I shall never know if our conversations were truly two-way.
I shall simply choose to believe they were, and the eye contact with my dad will always be one of the true miracles of my life.
© December 2016
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