My father is convinced that he is book material.
I became an English major in the fall of 2005, and since then my dad has decided that it is my fate to write a best-selling novel – about him – and make lots of money so that I can provide for him and Mom in their old age. Mom just rolls her eyes at him and says things like, “She doesn’t want to write about us, you twit! Who would want to read it?” And he, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question might answer “Me!” and grin goofily with a flutter of his eyelashes as if this were the most ingenious comeback of all time.
In fact, he believes this so wholeheartedly that I am going to write this famous book that every time something funny happens he’ll say, “There you go, Wessy. Chapter fourteen. Write that down.” Obviously it is not my writing skills that are going to sell this book, but his witty remarks and crazy antics. The whole family just sighs. All we need is for the whole world to be exposed to the weirdness that goes on in the Mowry household. But the thing is, as we all know and refuse to let on, Dean Mowry really is book material. He’s quite a character, at the very least.
One of my earliest memories of Dad includes him a full leg cast. My little sister Whitneigh was born when I was two, and our parents were exhausted from having to work full time and raise two young kids. The same week Mom went back after maternity leave Dad fell asleep at the wheel on his way home from work, and his car drifted into the cement beam of an overpass. No one else was hurt, but the crash shattered his eyeglasses, leaving awkward cuts on his face, and left him with a broken leg. For the next few weeks he was at home, bandaged leg up on the couch, taking care of me and the baby while Mom was at work. I was immediately enlisted as Daddy’s Little Helper, and was sent to do things since I could get there faster than he could on crutches. I would get bottles of Whitneigh’s milk out of the fridge, put it in the microwave, hit all the proper buttons, and deliver it. I was also sent after diapers and had a special stepstool to reach the red wall mounted telephone when it rang. I felt immensely important for being allowed to answer the real telephone. Usually it was one of my grandmothers calling – they would always know it was me and give me a message to pass on to Dad. Anyone else, though, wouldn’t realize I was there and Dad would have to hobble out to the kitchen to talk to them anyway. We spent our days together, the three of us, sitting on the avacado shag carpet in the living room, Dad with his white cast leg sticking out stiffly, the baby lying on her back on a blanket on the floor, me playing with them and running errands. We were quite a bunch. Mom cites this period of Dad’s medical leave as the reason why Whitneigh is so spoiled. Looking back, I realize that this must have been when I was ingrained with the ‘love language’ of servanthood. At only two years old I knew I loved my father and sister, and would gladly do whatever they needed, even if it meant talking to strangers on the red phone.
