Skevan

So I missed writing any kind of tribute to Evan on Father's Day. I actually had a card that I purchased two years ago and misplaced. I found it once and put it in a safe place, but forgot about it Father's Day 2007 and gave him another one instead. My plan was to use it this year, but then again, it would not appear when beckoned. The card is either really shy, or I have lost it--again. So this post is my late, but sincere and sort-of-public tribute to the Skev-man (a nickname I did not bestow upon him, but have some how accepted whole-heartedly. Its etymology traces back to the laughter and delirium of Evan's youth.)

I wrote what follows a few years ago, but I know it's been a while since Evan or I have read it. And it's the first time any of you have read it. So here's to Evan:

My husband, Evan, has what my sister and I call “dad hands.” They are thick and strong. The description is derived from our own father’s large, protective hands. As a small child sitting in my father’s lap I would often compare the size of my own very little hands to his; my dad’s wedding ring was so large it fit over my big toe. I would turn his hands over and over and examine and memorize every ridged nail, every crease in his knuckles, every scar. For me, Dad hands are safety and protection. They are strength and patience. They are not flimsy, delicate, skinny-fingered palms, but thick, scarred, beautiful dad hands.

Evan’s hands have undergone this same examination process. He has a scar on the knuckle of one of his thumbs, but I can’t ever remember which one or how he got it. He also has a speckled birthmark on the top of his hand directly below the curve between his thumb and his index finger. When he was little, his mother told him that this mark resembled a seven. A teenage Evan made this information lucrative by shaping wooden skim boards that he shellacked and then duplicated that birthmark on each as an insignia. Evan planned to make and sell those boards. When I saw the only one he saved, I was impressed with its curve and obvious resilience, but I still found it necessary to chuckle to myself at the thought of a sixteen-year-old kid actually making a business of selling these things. Evan didn’t laugh about it, however, and proceeded to tell me a story of a multi-million-dollar surf clothing company that began with a guy making silk-screens at home in his basement and selling T-shirts out of the trunk of his car.

Evan’s mom must have also told him that day that the seven was lucky. Or maybe, Evan just believed that it was.

One night in the dim and crowded auditorium of some downtown theatre Evan and I waited, lounging in red faux-velvet seats, for the latest Warren Miller ski film to start. Young, hip people dressed in cargo pants with bungee cord fasteners and chunky J. Crew sweaters were milling through the isles passing out 8 ½ by 11 cards on which we were to fill in our names and addresses and other personal information. We were supposed to enter the cards in a drawing for door prizes, but the ulterior motive was for different companies selling skiing and snowboarding equipment to pad up their mailing lists. I proceeded to obediently fill out my card and folded it in half like the local DJ who was running the contest had directed. Then I watched as Evan only wrote in his name and then crumpled the card up into a hard little baseball. To my questioning expression he flashed his white teeth, smiled with his dark eyes, and explained that this was “strategy.”

At intermission the DJ got up on stage and had some little blond, spiky-haired kid in over-sized clothing from the audience pull out the winning cards from a big box for each prize that he announced. “The next prize, one $50 gift certificate to [insert the name of some nearby ski shop], goes to…” As he was finishing the sentence I watched the little boy on stage hand him a crumpled ball; it struck me at that moment that of course some little kid is going to pick out the card that is the easiest to grab: Hmmm… hard little baseball? Or flat slippery card that’s like all the rest? Indeed, this was strategy. Or was it luck? The DJ began to peel apart the crumpled ball and mentioned something about “some wise guy thinking he’s funny” and then he read the name “Evan Rogers.” The owner of the name let out a big celebratory whoop and the DJ mentioned something about too much alcohol.

There are countless amazing stories of fortune filling Evan’s life history. He rarely has difficulty finding parking spots, which is a combination of creativity, temerity, and luck. And he always seems to be the guy walking by when some poor soul needs to get this perfectly functional washer and dryer off his hands because he has to move to Las Vegas that very day. Evan flashes his smile and gets free lunches, insurance waivers, and discounts on car repairs. People like him because he breathes benevolence, and they know that he wouldn’t blink an eye before returning a favor. So sometimes, while we’re waiting for a movie to start in some dark musty theatre, I’ll glance down at those beautiful hands intertwined with mine.

Then I’ll remember that I must be the lucky one.