That's How They Make Angels

When I was young, I had a predisposition to nearly kill myself with silly stunts, from time to time. Most guys know what I talking about - you know, the occasional fall from a tree limb, nearly hanging myself on a clothes line while running through a neighbor's backyard (after dark) playing hide-and-seek, or even running into a parked car with my bike while simultaneously steering with my feet (no hands on the handlebars) and looking over my shoulder to see why my best friend was shouting at me. The sorts of things that all boys did while growing-up in the 50's and 60's.

I would limp, or crawl, into the house and face the music. My mom would always get upset over the damage I had done to my body, or my clothes (I could never quite figure out which upset her the most?), and I would listen to her scolding which always seemed to last at least until bedtime (If the damage to my clothing was bad enough, I might hear about it over the course of several days).

My dad was always so cool about it. I could never figure out why, since he was the one who would have to pay for the replacement cloths and the occasional visit to the doctor for stitches (To the body, not the clothes.). He would always sigh and say, "Son, that's how they make angels, you know." Then he would watch TV, read the newspaper, or go out to the garage and tinker with his automobile.

When I was a junior in high school my dad's calm acceptance of my near fatal escapades became all too clear. I was injured in a high school football game, and required some treatment to my back at the local doctor's office. A very nice nurse administered the electro-shock therapy to the affected area. While she was doing the procedure she asked, "You're Snook Green's boy, aren't you?"

I was a little surprised to hear someone use my dad's childhood nickname, and simply replied, "Yes, mam."

"Well, how many of them ol' motorcycles have you torn-up?" she continued.

My dad had never allowed me to own, or even drive a motorcycle. He always discouraged me by saying, "Them ol' bikes are as dangerous as a loaded shotgun. No son of mine will ever have one as long as they are living under my roof!"

So I replied, "I've never had a motorcycle."

The lady laughed and said, "You're Snook Green's boy and you've never had a motorbike? Why by the time he was your age he had wrecked and torn up a half-a-dozen," she went on. "I've picked gravel outa his hide for days after some of his more spectacular crashes. Why once I saw him coming down a gravel road standing on his bike with one foot on the seat and the other on the handlebars," she chuckled. "Took almost a week to pick all the gravels out of his scrapes that time."

I left the doctor's office with a totally different opinion of my dad that day. I mentioned the conversation to my mom, and she just smiled and nodded her head. She already knew all about the bikes and the crashes. When my dad came in from work I smiled at him and said, "That's how they make angels, huh?" and I walked away, leaving him staring after me. I never did tell him about the nurse, the motorcycles, and the stories she told. I figured he would guess it on his own, or maybe mom would fill him in.

Yep, that's when I found out what "that's how they make angels" really meant to my dad.