Why life was beautiful, or the Wit and Wisdom of a Man Named Clifford (c) Nita Walker Boles

Laughter was a staple at our house. Our father enjoyed coming home to his children and apeing around. He would swing one arm , his knuckles grazing the floor, assume a hunch back, drop his jaw and become a wild-eyed and pursuing gorilla from whom we would flee, shrieking. Mother would chuckle and sputter as he chased us around but continue with her crocheting, cooking, or sewing, a reserved smile escaping now and then from the corners of her mouth.

That he delighted in us was self-evident, but we were as exasperating and annoying at times as any other kids. Still, he had a wry way of handling us that delivered the message without diminishing our worth. When I was found with scissors, cutting out paper dolls, he would shake his head as if amazed and describe me as "always cutting up little giblets of paper," meaning I'd better clean it up when I was done.

From our earliest memories, any car trip of consequence also included a narrative of our father's experiences in a parallel world where he once roamed with tribes of Indians (that was before we knew about political correctness) and Jim Bridger or Paul Bunyan. He was there personally to assist as Babe, the Blue Ox dug the Grand Canyon alongside Paul Bunyan. He and Jim Bridger once got caught in a Blue Norther and had to shoot a Buffalo, crawling inside the hide to keep warm. They later took the meat home to the Tribe. When banter erupted between him and our mother, she often got the best of him. Not to be outdone, he would remind us that "We used to drown squaws for less than that!"

Of course we knew Indians never drowned their wives, and that Daddy was only kidding, and that nothing he said when spinning these elaborate tales was entirely true, but his lore sent us to the library for books to read. Mark Twain and Tennyson were regular sources for quotes. And Daddy was seriously fascinated by Native Americans.

The National Geographic was well cared for in our home, and read by all. Books that included all the Indian Tribes and their locations were standard. Speculation on the origins of the cultures of the Incas and the Mayas, along with the Cliff Dwellers was regular conversation in the evenings and at supper. It was our father who first told us about the reception Cortez received as the Native Peoples assumed to their doom that he was their Bearded White God, returning as he had said he would. History was not boring for us in school with Daddy to put it into context for us.

His adherence to both Alley Oop and L'il Abner provided fodder for the unique vocabulary of our lives. A visitor in our home could easily be confused by asides and references in conversation. You sort of needed to be in the loop to get it all. We were entertained and educated by his close personal friendships with Pappy Yokum and Foozy. (For the last 20 years of his life, he was known affectionately as "Foozy" by certain family members.) For breakfast we often had Pterodactyl eggs with a rehearsal of the story of how Daddy and Alley Oop witnessed one drop an egg on a volcano. (This story was actually combined at times with a similar Popeye cartoon in which Popeye takes out a vulture who keeps company with Sinbad the Sailor.)

Even with all this media to stimulate political (both comic strips were highly political) and social commentary, and to provide euphemisms galore, Daddy had his own vernacular that we all still faithfully employ. If he thought what we were doing was funny or peculiar to the extreme, or that a demand was particularly challenging, he often exclaimed, "Oh, my right eyeball!"

Daddy would also invoke assistance from Deity in coping with the travails of a parent: "Lord, help the sick and the afflicted and them whose got kids." (Mother adopted it but shortened the plea to "Lord Help!")

He calmly deflected our attempts to involve him in our frequent searches for lost items by looking over his newspaper and directing us to "Look for it until you find it and when you find it, say, 'Whoopee, I found it!'"

When we came home with an astonishing account of some encounter or event in our day he would remark, "Well, I've been to two goat ropin's and a county fair and I ain't ever seen anything like it."

Fun and good humor permeated nearly every communication with our father, and when he was serious we hung on every word. Although he seldom darkened the doors of a church, Daddy was deeply religious. The big family Bible is so worn from his use that I have had to put a temporary binding tape on until I can get it repaired. Any of us in recalling what we would see when we entered our home after school would reply, "Daddy bent over the Bible, marking his place with a finger to greet you."

Although he was never preachy, when we had questions about doctrine being bandied about at church, he consistently had the reference close at hand and could quote what the Savior or Isaiah said about it. The most profound experience I had relative to this was when I was about 6 and a "Revival" was taking place at the church we attended.

Already so shaken by the threat of hell and damnation dished out from the pulpit I had asked to be baptized at the ripe old age of 5. Believing me to be too young the preacher had asked me if I knew the 23rd Psalm. Of course I didn't, and he didn't think I could read. So he hedged and postponed my baptism until I could recite the 23rd Psalm. Several weeks later I was baptized.

Now the guest preacher was asserting that if we didn't give more to the mission fund that thousands of individuals in the jungles of Africa would perish and go straight to hell because of their ignorance of Jesus Christ. I was stunned. I hardly had any money at the age of 6 and didn't believe my parents were especially wealthy, much less my friends and neighbors. How could God be so mean when those poor people in Africa could not help what they didn't know?

I went home to Daddy and explained the situation. I knew he had the answer, and in my heart I knew what it was, but I needed to hear the confirmation from Daddy. He looked steadily and tenderly at me over his open Bible and said, "Nonnie, God got blamed for a lot of things He never said." Then he looked down at his Bible and back up at me and said, "You know, Jesus said,'Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.'"

The time of day, the look of the room, the sound of his voice, the redemption of the moment are all so familiar still to me. I had just been given permission to think and believe for myself by the person I most respected in this life. In fact I had just been given the keys to personal revelation. In the Scriptures I would always find the truth and in my heart I could trust the Holy Spirit to verify it.

Life was beautiful.



(c) Nita Walker Boles