My Marlboro Man

I was raised by the Marlboro man. At least, he owned the jacket. It was free with proof of purchase, rewarded to only the most loyal of customers.I never liked country music- even when it became popular. It never felt like me. But it feels like him and whenever it comes on the radio now, I stop and listen. After ten years, the music he loved is no longer a reminder of my loss, but a tribute to his memory.

My dad wasn’t the kind of father you cuddle up to on the couch. He wasn’t an open, laughing, soft-bellied father. He was tattooed, tough and smelled like cigarettes, Old Spice, and motor oil. He was a disciplinarian. A workaholic. He was a seasoned rebel- a distant cowboy silhouetted in the sunset. He never taught me to ride a bike. But he taught me not to fear. He never took me camping. But he taught me independence.

At his funeral, my Uncle Danny said it best, “Dean Van Cleave was a man’s man.” To me he was more. He was superman, unreachable but hovering. Far-off and indestructible, protecting me from a world he never trusted. He did not believe in guns. All he needed were his hulk-sized fists and his lightening reflexes. There was no need to participate in the elementary school game “My dad can beat up your dad.” My dad was King Bad Ass- hands down. I once saw him jump from the roof of our three-story house to rescue my sister on a runaway radio-flyer. Not a scratch. He walked with the confidence of a man who finished more fights than he started. I knew instinctively he’d always be there for me, but in the unlikely event of kryptonite he taught me to defend myself.

“Never run from a dog.” He said, “He’ll only chase you. Walk like you’re not afraid and if he comes at you, punch him in the eyes or nose.” I assumed he had thrown down with a dog at some point in his vast array of violent encounters, though I was always too shy to ask him about it. He had the same advice when it came to people.

When I turned eight and wanted to be baptized Mormon I had to ask for his permission. The prospect of entering the smoky garage- his sanctuary -had deterred my older siblings from being baptized until they were older. Summoning all my courage I approached him, sitting cross-legged at his workbench, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lip as he contemplated one of his many projects.

“Daddy?” I whispered, “Daddy, can I get baptized?” I can still see the twinkle in his faded blue eyes. He waited a moment before answering.

“That’s a big decision- making a promise to God.”

I nodded, watching the smoke ribbon from the end of his Marlboro.

“You don’t get baptized because your mother wants you to- you get baptized because you want to. And if you make that kind of promise you better believe I will hold you to it whether you’re sixteen or thirty. You make a promise to God, you keep it- understand?” I did understand. He scared the crap out of me, but I understood. He taught me integrity. He taught me respect. He taught me to own my actions. My brother baptized me and I knew my dad was proud.

My dad had five tattoos that I’m aware of. I can only remember four of them because the fifth was so faded it looked like a green bruise the shape of Mickey Mouse. Of one thing I’m sure: it wasn’t Mickey Mouse. One said U.S. Navy. One said Born to Lose. I swear one said Mom. But the one on his calf was my favorite because it was a picture of a chicken.

“Daddy? Why do you have a chicken on your leg?”

He would simultaneously avoid both my eye and my question. It wasn’t until I was older that my mom explained to me that it wasn’t a chicken. It was a cock. Yep. I didn’t ask him about it again.

When I was fifteen I wanted to learn to drive. We lived in a tiny mountain town in Northern CA with winding two-lane roads. My dad prided himself in his ability to manipulate these winding two-lane roads going speeds more appropriate for an interstate highway. And what really chapped his backside were all the incompetent drivers in his way. He would intimidate them off the road, shouting obscenities through his cigarette and suggesting where they could shove it. On more than one occasion the car in front of us pulled over to challenge him. My dad was more than happy to oblige, to the frantic predictions of my mother, “Dean! He probably has a gun!” When both he and I knew he was impervious to bullets. Fortunately, he never had to fight. The incompetent driver, upon seeing my terrifying father coming for him in his rearview, would always change his mind, speeding away in a cloud of gravel and shame- leaving my dad straight-faced and triumphant: the greatest driver in the world.

Which is why I begged my mom to teach me to drive. Our lessons didn’t last long as my dad did not approve of her inferior skills and wanted to pass along secret techniques that only he knew. Devices he had learned in his youth, growing up in the Black Hills of South Dakota. That also didn’t last long. After a few lessons I refused to drive at all and did not get my license until I was eighteen.

For a man who Jimmy Ellis had called “one mean white boy” after boxing him to a draw, my dad had a big heart. He picked up hitchhikers, laughed with cashiers and waiters, flirted with every single baby he saw. He may not have read the bible, but he quoted it to me constantly, “Somewhere in that book it says something about treating others the way you want to be treated, Dammit” He taught me to love strangers. He taught me to serve.

I left home at sixteen just as he had. Being married to the Marlboro man had its price and my mom was tired of paying it. My parents had been engaged in constant warfare for as long as I can remember. The threat of a broken home hung like a guillotine over our house. I loved both my parents. Both were wrong. Both were right. Both would continue fighting whether I was there or not. I made plans to live with my sister in Utah. Her one condition: I had to have Dad’s permission.

“No.” was his firm answer. I packed my bag. “No.” I said goodbye to all my friends. “No.” But it hadn’t stopped him, and it didn’t stop me. A week after I left he called me. “Honey, I’ve given it some thought.” His sigh was more painful to me than any punishment. “I am giving you my permission.”

I knew he was not only giving me permission to leave home, but his consent to grow up. I had stood my ground and he treated me like an equal from then on. I knew I had gained his respect the day he thought I was old enough to share in a dirty joke.

The summer following my first year of college was the last summer I spent with my dad. It had been two years since I had lived at home and I could tell he was relieved to have me back. So relieved he bought me two cars. The first one we saw while we were out together- a beautiful dark red 1954 Mercedes. The body was in perfect condition, even the interior, but it didn’t run. In his younger years my dad had been an exceptional mechanic. My mom told me he had built his own car once. But anxiety and age had frayed him around the edges. If the car could have run on sheer will power I would be driving it today. But it couldn’t and he was unable to fix it. He explained that he would continue working on the Mercedes but would buy me a new car in the meantime. I understood what he really meant. He bought me a 1988 Buick Regal- straight cash.

“This is a good car” and he was right. It was no Mercedes, but it ran and I was grateful for it. I drove that car back and forth between UT and CA five or six times and it never gave me any problems. That massive ugly Buick took care of me years after my dad was gone.

The last time I saw him was that Christmas. I wish I had known it- we could have had that talk he kept telling me he wanted to have.

“Just you and me.” He promised. When he took me to the airport, my sister and Mom waited in the car while he waited with me, holding the boxed-up dinner he insisted I take with me. We stood a long time in silence. He bought me a milkshake and when it was clear my plane was going to be very late he sighed and told me he had better head home. He hugged me- that slightly awkward cigarette and Old Spice hug.

“Love you.” He said gruffly. I watched him walk away. I was always proud of the way he walked in his cowboy boots, how he didn’t give a crap if he stood out like a sore thumb in the San Francisco airport.

That spring he annoyed the hell out of me with phone calls about the income tax forms he was preparing for me. He loved tax-time: the numbers, the columns, the challenge, the money. The man walked around with ten hundred-dollar bills in his wallet just to feel the secure weight of them in his torn Levi pockets. Just to feel he had an unexpected card up his plaid, threadbare sleeve- an F.U. to everyone who’d ever looked down on him for growing up too poor to buy underwear. He had worked hard, he had been successful and he celebrated his success by eating steak three times a week. He loved tax time and I didn’t understand. I was even a little short with him a couple times. That is why I called that Sunday, so I could tell him sorry and thank you, though I never had the chance to say either. I ended up talking to my mom. He walked in just as I was about to hang up. I told him I was dating a guy named Andy that was 6’4.

“I could still take him.” He said. That was the last thing he said to me.

Tuesday morning I got a phone call.

I took a plane and a bus to get home for the funeral. The house was filled with people- talking, laughing, crying. But I hardly heard them. His cowboy boots sat just inside the front door.

I thought he was invincible. The man who tackled my boyfriends to the ground, the man who called me smart -ass as a term of endearment, the man who showed me his love by sharing his garage-stashed candy with me. The man who taught me not to judge a man by his tattoos and his pack of cigarettes, but by his heart. That was and always will be my Marlboro man. My Superman. My dad.

14 COMMENTS
  1. Wait a minute! Who said you could post something that would make me cry?

    I miss him too, Diana.

    Kelly 16 years ago Reply
  2. Diana, that was a beautiful tribute. I couldn’t have said it better myself. The only downside for me, is that I didn’t put this post up first.

    BTW, he told me the same thing when I was baptized, only I didn’t muster up the courage to ask him until I was nearly 11.

    If there is one thing (among many) he taught me, it was generosity. He would, and did, give the shirt off his back to anyone in need.

    To this day, I carry a strong desire to help the helpless and the homeless when I see them (if only I had the means), no matter how scary they may appear. I too, learned that tattoos, hairstyles, peircings, and other outward appearances are not in any way accurate indicators of the heart within.

    I remember when we went back for the funeral. The last possession of his I remember seeing were his cowboy boots leaning against the bedroom wall.

    I’ve always been proud to be his son, maybe a bit too proud, in my disdain for the rich and materialistic of this world.

    I’m not much like him in personality or taste, (except maybe temperament)but there ain’t nothing like country music and the smell of Old Spice in the morning.

    I too miss him greatly, but I know he’d want us to keep a stiff upper lip and remember the mantra “mind over matter.”

    He once told me that the greatest joy in life is to bring a little joy into someone else’s life.

    He didn’t do this behind the wheel so much… No, not so much… But he always tried to cheer up the spirits of those around him when he saw a need, with a joke, a smile or just being a goofball.

    But Uncle Danny said it best at his funeral, “Dean Van Cleave was a man’s man.”

    Wayneman 16 years ago Reply
  3. It really is mean to make people cry. Seriously though, I love you Di and I love this post about Dad. You describe him so well.

    AngPang 16 years ago Reply
  4. Thanks Ang, I’m sorry- I cried plenty writing it too. But its been really nice remembering him.
    Wayne, the image of his boots sitting against the wall will forever be ingrained in my brain. I love dad, and miss him. And I can hardly wait to see what he thinks of Andy…and Chad!

    Di 16 years ago Reply
  5. BTW Just because I posted about dad FIRST does NOT mean I wouldn’t love to read another post about him by Wayne, Angie, or Gina. We all have great stories I am sure.

    Di 16 years ago Reply
  6. I can’t even imagine losing a parent. The closest I ever came was during my mom’s fight with breast cancer. But when Dad passed away, a part of me died too. He was the greatest father figure I had ever had (things are much better with my own dad now, but were quite patchy when I first married Wayne). I LOVED your tribute to him. He enters into my thoughts so often. I think since I was such a hard-head, myself, Dad and I saw eye to eye on a lot of things (proverbially speaking of course… Literally I was more at his navel).

    I often think how much Hayden would have adored his Pops, being the mechanical mind that he is. Pops died when Hayden was only two, so they never really got to bond. But I imagine, had Dad’s brain been in the proper working order, he would have spent long hours taking apart that Mercedes in the garage with Hayden (because it would probably still not work after all this time).

    Nathan, of course, already looked at Pops as though he was the greatest celebrity to walk the planet in cowboy boots. Any guy that would get up at the crack of dawn just to get donuts was super studly. And Nathan still mentions Pops whenever he squirts Redi-Whip directly into his mouth.

    Thanks, Di.

    Shanana 16 years ago Reply
  7. Di, apparently I am not the only bawl baby reading your blog. I felt like I was watching a movie. I am sorry for anyone that loses a loved one. Wednesday a 28 year old guy died in our Stake from a heart attack. His wife is expecting their second child. I’m not sure how people get through it.
    What a great tribute to your Dad. Thanks for sharing it.
    Angie B.

    Angie 16 years ago Reply
  8. i miss his smile. very rare, but it did always twinkle even when the six of us little girls would be giggling and possibly annoying him. i always liked his story about growing up in a covered wagon and having a bucket of warm water tossed on him to unseal the blanket. gotta love south dakota for those cold winters.

    Annalisa 16 years ago Reply
  9. This tribute gave me goosebumps. To know you is to know your Dad. You are a true rebel at heart Diana, just like him. Thank goodness for all the colors of the rainbow.

    Meliss 16 years ago Reply
  10. Thank-you Di. I miss my (our) daddy so much. I don’t remember any details of the last time I saw or talked to dad. I know I saw him the day I lost Ila. He was in so much pain. He felt so helpless because he couldn’t take away my pain. I don’t remember the rest of that year. I was pregnant with Esther when he called me two days before he died. Sanders answered the phone so I didn’t get to talk to him. Dad asked for the recipe for tuna casserole so that he could make it for mom on their anniversary that night. I never got to talk to him.
    He was my best friend. The smell of old-spice still makes me cry. Thank-you for the beautiful memory.

    Geansie 16 years ago Reply
  11. Sigh…Thank goodness I can still type – if I had to tell you this with my voice it would have to wait – I’m too choked up. I hope you print off and save this post. It is beautiful. Happy Father’s Day to your Dad from me too – – for bringing such a wonderful person as you into the world and touching your life the way he did.
    loves!

    cbracken 16 years ago Reply
  12. Thanks everyone for their sweet comments. If I didn’t have a strong belief that I will see my dad again I would be overwhelmed with sadness. As it is, I am grateful for the time I did have with him, and grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who is mindful of him and of all of His children. Sadness is not necessarily a bad thing. It will make our joy that much sweeter when we meet again.

    Di 16 years ago Reply
  13. My goodness!!! I am soaked in my own tears!!! I certinaly think your dad raised an amazing woman, and I’m grateful to call you my friend. I’m very grateful to your father as well; despite our parent’s inperfections they often teach perfect lessons. I love you, Diana, Happy Father’s Day to all of the Father’s in our lives.

    Destination Davis 16 years ago Reply
  14. Very beautiful, Didi. I love him too, and the children he we made together.
    Happy Father’s Day to all daddies.

    Mom 16 years ago Reply

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