Special Gifts

Alarie Tennille

 

  

Paul Tennille who died in March 1983, a week after his 65th birthday.

 

How Alarie Remembers Her Daddy

By Alarie Tennille

I was Daddy’s little girl. Of course, I was his only little girl. By the time he started taking me on adventures and riding amusement park rides, my older brother preferred the company of friends his own age. Daddy loved
people, especially very young people. At a party, he’d be the guy entertaining kids with magic tricks or telling looooooong stories to the crowed, but he only shared the funny or heart-warming events of WWII.

Daddy had a difficult life, from losing his mother at age one, being farmed out to live with cousins instead of staying with his siblings, and leaping out of planes in combat. What did he have to lose? He was the extrovert daredevil that his tiny half-blind daughter was not. All the more reason
to adore adventures that we never told Mama about, like the time I rode a bull bareback (we lived in the city)  or when he sat me on the hood of the car and drove me around the neighborhood, one hand clutching my ankle just in case.  Shhhhh, please don’t tell Mama.


Daddy and the Ham

“Hurry!” we’d say,
but Daddy wouldn’t,
carving the Smithfield ham
so thin you could see
the light through it.
No matter how many
empty dinner rolls waited,
he would saw with slow precision,
gripping the greasy handle
of the knife, its blade
worn into a thin arc
like the growing hollow
of the shank.   As each pink
sheet came free, he would
hold it up for inspection.
“How’s this?” he’d ask,
relishing his rare chance
to impress the whole family.

First published in Running Counterclockwise, Kelsay Books



Daddy and the MPs

World War II

Daddy was a flashy dresser –
added a tartan tie and derby
to his drab uniform.

“You’re in trouble this time,”
said Daddy’s buddy Dale
as the MPs approached.
Sure enough they got stopped.

“Button your pocket,”
they told Dale before walking on –
just a nod to Daddy.
Cigarettes, chocolates, booze,
favorite rations traded with the Brits –
whatever could make war
a little less hell, Master Sergeant
Tennille provided.

I laughed every time I heard it.
A paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne
didn’t have many stories
he could tell his little girl.

First published in Ilya’s Honey


Keeping Cool


The used car was a steal
Daddy said. Air conditioning.
So we piled in and headed
for Richmond. Broad Street,
downtown—scalding pavement.
What did we care that traffic
crawled? We enjoyed
the novelty of not sweating.

The woman in the next car
seemed cool, too, as she
asked Mama, “Did you know
you’re on fire?”

Flames shot up from the chassis.
My brother saved himself,
watched from the corner as Mama
turned into Wonder Woman,
yanking me up and over
the front seat.

Now the three of us stood
on the curb yelling at Daddy.
The fireman with a bull horn
yelled, too, “Sir, get out of the car
NOW!” But Daddy just stayed
cool.

First published in Wild Goose Poetry Review.


Daddy Hits a Policeman
 
A picnic lunch ¬– probably
fried chicken or Smithfield ham,
a jug of iced tea. Daddy may have
had more than tea. In another three
or four years, I’d notice how quickly
he gulped evening down, withdrew
to a place that didn’t hold me.
This was just a lazy Saturday
at the beach, a nap on a bench
before we spent the night fishing.
One of many such nights –
minus the policeman.
 
He swatted Daddy with the back
of his hand. Eyes closed, Daddy
swatted back. We jumped up
and down shrieking, Daddy,
it’s a policeman! Another swat –
a harder slap from Daddy.
Come on, Buddy, wake up!
This time Daddy’s eyes and legs
popped to attention.
 
You’re not allowed to sleep here,
said the officer. But he was the one
to move along, not wanting to panic
the kids any further.

First published in, Running Counterclockwise, Kelsay Books
 

Bringing Home the Bacon

Slopping and slaughter
put pickled pigs feet, chitlins,  and souse
on the table, a ham or
roast on Sunday.
During the Depression,
there was plenty to eat,
but nothing to waste.

Decades later Daddy
stands admiring the bacon
in the grocery aisle. He cradles
the red and yellow packages,
pokes the cellophane.  Can’t decide.  
Asks, “This one...or this?
Or what about that one?”

Carts jangle by. Other shoppers
grab and go. “Does this look
ten cents a pound better?” Every
package must be compared
to farm  boy memories.
At home, Mama waits
for lunch.  At least he has
already grown the tomatoes.

First published in Spiraling into Control.


Tomato Invasion

Tomatoes march single file
across the windowsill, then close ranks,
parading over the kitchen counter
for inspection. Daddy surveys
his troops with obvious pride—
says, “Follow me,” and leads me
down the hall. In the guest room,
another platoon of tomatoes
stands at attention. A few balance
right on a ledge, like paratroopers
ready to leap. “As a master sergeant,
I was always the last one out of the plane,”
says Daddy.  “I was supposed to shoot
anyone who refused to jump, but
I never had to.”

Now he is general of his own tomato army.
I think, “Twenty-five tomato plants—
that’s a lot for two people.”
Then I see him prepare the first convoys.
Bulging in their khaki sacks,
tomatoes soon line Daddy’s car,
making room at home for fresh recruits.

He provided for his men.
He provided for his family.
Now Daddy sets off to supply cousins,
neighbors, friends, even friends of friends
from his victory garden.
It will be a short mission—
over by first frost, then Daddy
can rest for winter. But as he gazes
out the kitchen window, I know
he is already planning
next year’s campaign.

First published in Spiraling into Control.

 

Read more about Alarie:

https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/04/storyteller-of-week_8.html