Tsigili di kata
AKA Rutherford William Wipple

            The smell of cherry blend tobacco and old spice cologne always alerted me to the presence of my estranged father.  Before my eyes were even fully open I’d have stumbled from my bed whispering “Daddy…”, following the scent like a translucent ribbon to his old recliner in the den.   He was a small man, with enough padding to make sitting in his lap the best seat in the house, but not so much that he didn’t look trim and tidy in the razor creased khaki’s and white button up shirts he always wore. 

            On this Easter Sunday when I cannon balled my way into his lap, his hug was a little tighter and more cloying  than usual causing me to push away with all my five year old muscles so I could look at his face.

            “Why you crying Daddy?”  I said, squishing his ruddy cheeks between my hands so I could make his face be still.  Unlike my squinty blue eyes, his were journals to his soul.  Large like his Cherokee namesake, Tsigili di kata, Owl Eyes, they were patent leather brown flecked with gold around shimmering black irises. 

            “I’m not crying, Kitty Cat, I think I must have an allergy.  I must be allergic to squiggly little girls with bright blonde curls!”  He tickled me until I was laughing so hard I could barely gasp out the code word we had to signal someone was tired of playing. 

            “Will you tell me what’s new at school?”  He asked as I settled back into my customary position on his lap and he relit the pipe that had gone cold while he played with me.  A haze of fragrant smoke soon marked the boundary of our small world, my high pitched chatter and the steady tick of the grandfather clock the only noise in the sleeping house. 

            “Catherine! How many times must I tell you not to leave your room until I’m awake?   Get your dress on, we’re going to be late for church.”  My mother’s voice sent me scurrying across the room without argument.  I slipped carefully around her tall rigid figure in the doorway and then skidded to a halt in the hallway as I heard her addressing my Dad.  “Whip, why must I continue to ask you to knock before coming in here…Catherine!  Room!  Wake up your sisters on the way.”   

            By the time I returned to the den, dressed, gloved, hatted and sprinkled with Tinker Belle perfume, Dad had moved to his second favorite seat in the house.  Eyes closed, head resting on the back of the couch he conducted the classical music playing on the reel to reel across the room. 

            “Listen Kitty, can you hear the flutes singing their melody, the mournful clarinets answering in the background?” 

            I never could hear these tiny details, but I loved the big sound and the flow of his hands keeping beat with the music.  I crawled up beside him and watched the tape as it rolled through the shiny machine from one metal disk to another. 

            “Are you going to church with us today Daddy?”  I asked him as the tape wound to its end and he returned to the world with a wan smile.

            “You know better, Kitty Cat, where is my church?” 

            “Elo, ga lunadi!”  I giggled. 

            “Earth and sky, yes.  Who needs more than that?”  He winked and pulled me over into his lap.  “Show me your church.”

            “Oh Daddy, that’s a baby game!” 

            “I know, but you do it so nicely.” 

            His sturdy brown hands wrapped around my tiny white gloved ones, we played Here is the Church, Here is Steeple until it was time to leave for Sunday School. 

            I looked back as I was waiting my turn to climb into our old buick.  He was standing very still on the walk, the sun glinting off the random silver hairs in his crew cut.  As I watched, he pressed one hand to his heart and then held it out to me.  I repeated the motion and hopped happily into the car, unaware that when I returned he would be crossing the California line headed back to Oklahoma, his battered recliner in the back of his truck.