Dad

© 2025 Arthur Elkins Stout

It was an early September Friday afternoon in Hanover New Hampshire. I was just entering fourth grade in 1978 and my day at school was over. I was waiting for my dad to pick me up,

relieved to be outside.

The sky was brilliant and blue and the sun still had warmth.

I stood away from the other kids, alone, I’d had enough of  them for one day.

Soon I saw the shine of my father’s Buick round the corner into the school parking lot. The bright afternoon sun lit it up like a star. I had a thrill of adrenaline rise in my stomach. I was always in awe of him.

And here he came to get me!

In that moment, I was not aware of anything else around me — the Buick and my dad pulling up to the curb.

The windows were all rolled down and as he approached I could see him looking and then noticing me. His face lit up into a big grin, his left hand on the steering wheel and his big right arm stretched over the back of the passenger seat. He had a dark tan from the long summer and his sleeves of shirt rolled up, “Hey Bunk!”  He yelled out the window as I ran up to the car, “Bunk”was his nickname for me.

I was the youngest of his six kids so alone time with him was precious to me. I didn’t say anything. Just got in next to him. He continued to grin. He was in a great mood, he said, “we should go up to the white river this weekend, the fall run of brown trout is on.” I looked up at him and grinned back. There was nothing I loved more than our fishing trips.

I closed my door as he was already speeding away. My father was always moving. He gunned the big engine as we left the school parking lot. Good riddance I thought. No more school until Monday.

We drove along for a while in comfortable silence. The air was fresh and flooded the car, you could smell the season changing from summer to fall. Dad had his right hand on top of the steering wheel now and his left arm out on the window frame.

We made are way north along the Connecticut river valley and the flawless New Hampshire countryside. Broad flat fields laden with corn and alfalfa stretched out and reached the winding river to the west. On the other side, Vermont and all her splendor greeted the banks of the the nourishing water, the flat valley then rose sharply into the rolling green mountains.

I spoke for the first time since I had gotten in the car,

I said, “Dad I sure hope we can go fishing tomorrow.” He turned and stared at me.

I wondered how he could steer the car while not looking at the road for so long. Then I realized what the stare meant. He didn’t need to answer.

Of course we were going fishing.

A few miles north we turned onto Pineo hill rd, an epic, old, steep winding dirt road that climbs up out of the valley and into the rolling hills. Wooded ridge lines with Sugar Maple, Oak, White Birch and Pine framed the horizon. We turned onto a paved road and again we were cruising along.

My mind pleasantly wandered off into a daydream:

I dreamt of our driveway, winding between tall stone walls and maple trees. In the summer, the trees formed a canopy of shade, with rays of sunshine filtering through , then it opened up into a wide open field to our north, and the horse barn and paddock, to our south. Three tall horses, a sorrel and two chestnut’s were lined along the post and rail fence, one of the chestnut’s had a white blaze on her forehead, the sorrell was chewing on a mouth full of grass. At one end of the paddock the  gate was open to the pasture and further to south the white stone barn faced the paddock with a cantilevered  roof to provide shade and shelter for the horses.  A broken coat Jack Russell Terrier lay in the sun by the door.

My daydreaming continued:

Perhaps I’d grab my rod and catch some brook trout from the stream that ran through our woods. Or go down to the barn and help Bonnie with the chores, she always greeted me with a big open smile, “well how is Arthur today?!” The barn was a world within itself, the horses in the stalls, cats hunting or napping and the pack of Jack Russell Terriers, that lived in the tack room.

I woke up, as we rounded a corner of the country road and we were stopped by a crew laying new tar. They resurfaced the roads back then, with a thick sticky, tar layer and then gravel was spread over it.

We waited.

The men would cover one lane at a time so cars could get through. A few minutes went by and no cars were moving. Then a few more.. I looked over at my dad.

I knew him well. His expression had changed.

His complexion had taken on a crimson hue. He was always moving but now he was stuck, sitting, waiting. The tension in our car was rising, his temples began to pulse and his eyes narrowed.

Suddenly he threw the big Buick in gear, “Fuck this! These God Damned idiots!”

I looked at him in horror, “Dad!” I yelled as he whirled past the men and straight into the fresh hot tar. The men were jumping out of the way of this lunatic! Angry as hell at first, but then laughing and shouting and pointing, as the car spun through the fresh hot tar.

  We were now sliding and spinning, but dad didn’t stop. He kept his foot on the gas and we made it through to the other side.

He was now in a different mood than the one in the school parking lot. His eyes blazed with fury, with both hands gripping the steering wheel and his jaw clenched tight.

I was quiet and stared straight ahead.

Now, I wasn’t dreaming, as we turned onto our long drive.

Neither of us spoke.

He threw the car in park, got out and slammed the door — hard.

He was furious at everyone and everything, kicking the ground and swearing! I had gotten out of the car also.

His car — that he had always kept perfectly shined — was now covered with black splattered tar.

I slid away without him noticing.

I was used to his temper and wanted no part of it.

The car was never the same after that, he continued to drive it for a couple of years with that unique look —

Splattered tar.

I’m quite sure that the men that were working that day had many laughs, at my father’s expense.