It hasn't been edited, it really doesn't have much of a beginning or an end really, and I'm not sure what the point is, or even if there needs to be one.


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This morning C was showing us some hand signs. “This means stop, this means go, this means dude.” I didn’t even know she knew the word dude, let alone the sign for it. We asked her where she learned all this and she said, “From me.”

Ah.

I wish we’d taught her some baby sign, although she talked early enough that it wouldn’t have been useful for very long. Maybe we’ll get around to it with M, although I doubt it. It’s a shame; my dad knew sign language well and it would have been a way to honor him, to share with C and M some bit of their grandpa.

My dad was a recovering alcoholic and a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, as much as one is a “member” of AA I suppose, for more than 25 years. I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on anonymity—maybe I’ve blown his—but even when he was alive he always seemed quite open about being in recovery. Perhaps he intended his life to be a testimony. He sponsored countless people over the years, was a leader of men’s meetings, and attended conferences. I’m told that at his memorial service, people came up to the family and said, “He saved my life.”

One evening when I was a kid, someone made an announcement at a meeting calling for people to learn sign language as an outreach to deaf and hearing-impaired people who wanted to participate in AA. My dad signed up and eventually became quite proficient. I knew the language had become a part of him when he’d drive me to school in the morning. I’d watch his hand absently going through the alphabet, his wrist resting on the steering wheel.

Over time Dad came to sponsor a man named Tommy. Tommy came to our house from time to time to talk to Dad. I watched sometimes, these confidential conversations laid out in plain sight. Occasionally Tommy would get emotional and start vocalizing—loud nonsense sounds that startled me. I was embarrassed on his behalf, but my dad never seemed rattled. He just kept watching, and signing, his hands swishing against one another.

I never thought my father was very physically graceful as men go. I only danced with him a couple of times, and what he lacked in rhythm he made up for in willingness and affection for his dancing partner, whether wife or daughter. He exploited his inability to carry a tune to comedic effect, particularly in the car on the way to school when his “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” made me smile in spite of myself. But the tape I heard a few years back of him telling his story was as polished as the finest sermon from the grandest pulpit. He was graceful with words. And he brought grace to anyone who was trying to quit drinking.

And he was graceful when he was signing. For the final class, each person had to prepare a translation of a song or poem. He chose “The Owl and the Pussycat,” perhaps in honor of his four young children. Somewhere there is a black and white photograph of him presenting the poem. His hands are cupped together, extended in front of him. My brother is about C’s age, and he is kneeled on the floor in front of him, looking up, awestruck.

Hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

He was graceful then.