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Father Daughter Swamp Time

“Hold still, Dad. I’m about to take a picture of you and Odie.”

“Absolutely not. I don’t do pictures. I’ll take the picture but you’re not going to take a picture of me.”

“This is a moment.”

“I don’t give a fuck, you’re not about to take my picture. I’m an ugly old fart, but I feel OK about it because I don’t look in the mirror and I don’t pose for pictures.”

“Don’t you want to remember this?”

“I can remember things without looking at pictures of myself.”

“Just shut up and smile so one day, after you’ve kicked it, I can show this photo to my children and say, ‘Look at that asshole.”

He laughs and I quickly snap the picture.

Insecure white girls who can’t take a compliment would be dazzled by my father’s contemptuous dismissal of anything resembling flattery. His self-effacement borders on passive aggression. This sometimes clashes with my embellished sense of comedy and confrontational nature.

Every December, I make the pilgrimage from Los Angeles to Central Florida. My parents (divorced, amicably) live in quirky, tiny towns with tight-knit communities and minimal entertainment. This year, for the very first time, I am splitting the visit between Mom and Dad. Thus, the day after a pleasant Christmas, I climb into my father’s old white pickup truck, and we drive into the depths of cracker country to rejuvenate and repair our father/daughter bond in a town with one stoplight. Carrabelle is a sandy, hardscrabble sort of spot that seems less like a town and more like a couple dozen peeling, wooden buildings clustered between ocean and pine forest. By the time we arrive, night has fallen and happy hour as begun.

My father is a sarcastic, stubborn man who enjoys the blues, vodka, and his own voice. He has many opinions, most of which he’d be happy to share with you at the faintest provocation. He’s subscribed to The New York Times since 1978, traveled the world many times, and now lives in a blue-collar fishing village. Here is a short list of things we both like: booze, folk rock, cigarettes, audiobooks, guns, Netflix, water, steak, and swearing.

We don’t bother to unpack, just drop off the luggage and book it to Harry’s, an old dive with new pool tables. The aging blonde bartender greets my dad by name.

“So you’re Charlie’s girl. We’ve been real excited to meet you.” Odie is waiting. He is tall, with a long white ponytail and denim shirt. His thin mouth stretches into a crooked but pleasant smile. “Chloe. Long time no see. Whatcha having?”

“Whatever you’re having,” I say, and he orders me a Coors Lite and shot of cognac. The cognac is sickly sweet, so in the spirit of staying coherent, I sip the shot rather than guzzle it down. Dad drinks what he always drinks: vodka, on the rocks. I occasionally try to keep up with him, but after about a mug of straight Stoli, I give up because I’m not trying to black out.

As they chit chat about mulch and machinery (Odie’s line of work), I guzzle my beer and survey the surroundings. A place this salt of the earth could make Dame Judi Dench feel like Gretchen Wilson, and I savor the rowdy sensibility. Odie and I exchange polite banter.

“So what are you doing in Carrabelle, Chloe?”

“I want to take in all the sights.”

“So you’ll be leaving tonight, then?”

“Probably not. I’m doing research for an article. I asked my Dad to bring me to the biggest redneck in the grungiest shit hole, so here we are with you.”

Odie and I get along real well. We even share a similar philosophy on customer service.

“I’m not a naturally helpful person, and I accept that about myself. Sometimes, a person will ask ‘Can you help me?’ and I’m like, ‘It’s not a question of can it’s a question of will. I can help you but I choose not to.’ People are stupid like that.”

“Charles, I think Chloe and I could do business together.”

“Why thank you, Odie.”

After a round or four, we square up the tab and get ready to head over to the (only) other bar in town, where their friends are playing live music. Our conversation has turned to my Dad’s new love interest. I see an opportunity.

“Can I just say, I’m so glad my Dad has found his soulmate.” I gush sentimentally to Odie.

“You really think she’s his soulmate?”

“Not her, Odie. You! Y’all are just two peas in a pod.”

To my delight, my father turns bright red.

“Don’t joke about shit like that, Chloe,” he warns. “You’re talking to a total homophobe.”

“I’m just excited about your love. Odie isn’t ashamed.”

“This isn’t the place or person, Chloe. Odie has got a real problem. He’ll lose it if a guy so much as touches him.”

I roll my eyes and whip around to stare at Odie.

“I’m gay. You got a problem with me?”

His expression is neutral.

“No.”

“Then you don’t have a problem with gay people. Let’s roll.” I smugly totter off the barstool.

Dad will always be there for you, but his support comes with a certain degree of discomfort. When his brother had a stroke, my father rushed to his side and didn’t leave for months. His updates were less than uplifting.

“He’s in real bad shape,” he’d say every time. “Can’t remember what he had for breakfast. And emotional! Like a child. We were talking about Mom and he cried. Cried. It’s hard for me to say this, but if he doesn’t recover soon, I’m going to do the merciful thing and put him out of his misery. Pull the plug. Or if that doesn’t work, I’ve got a pillow. It’ll be real quick. He wouldn’t want to live like this. I wouldn’t want to live like that.”

My father didn’t leave his brother’s side until Uncle Mike regained the ability to walk and talk. The nurses were amazed by how quickly Uncle Mike got out of bed. I suspect Dad hovering over the hospital bed with a pillow and expression of grim resignation may have been a factor.

The next day at the crack of noon, we rev up Dad’s sturdy little motorboat and chug along the crooked river into Tate’s Hell Swamp.

Up the crooked river into Tate’s hell swamp from the helm of my father’s boat

A video posted by Chloë (@yo.chlochlo) on Dec 28, 2015 at 9:32am PST

“Why is it called Tate’s Hell Swamp?” I wonder aloud.

“There’re a lot of stories, all of them bullshit,” he grunts with a profound lack of curiosity. Whoever Tate was, I admire his honesty. For most of my life, I too have viewed Florida swampland as the portal to hell. Yet on this warm but not too warm, sunny but not too sunny day, I’m overcome by rare admiration for the rainforest’s stunted bastard brother. Swamps aren’t flashy-they are mostly a dull brown- but they are peaceful yet wild. We make our way into Tate’s Hell Swamp in comfortable silence, broken only to admire the wildlife. A circling hawk, a sunbathing turtle, a strolling alligator, an anorexic pine tree.

People are always rattling on about the serenity of being among nature, and maybe that was a part of it, but for the first time in ages, that unspoken tension bubbling between Dad and I evaporated. It was a nasty undercurrent, the residue of my teen hostility, his quietly devastating divorce, and the benign neglect of young adulthood. I imagine it’s a common sort of barricade between girls and their fathers. I’m glad we broke through.

“Yes, father dear?” Target practice in the backyard

A photo posted by Chloë (@yo.chlochlo) on Dec 27, 2015 at 5:36pm PST

Later that day, we sit out in his backyard with a couple drinks and a couple guns. He props plastic cups for target practice and corrects my form before stepping back and letting me happily blast away. When Dad pops inside to freshen his drink, I spot a lizard near my target. This would be a real test. Could I make the shot? I shoot and miss. I shoot and miss again. Insultingly, the lizard does not run from fire or even twitch. He clearly doesn’t think much of my aim. This annoys me. My eyes narrow. I focus. I hold the gun steady. Slowly, gently, just like Dad showed me, I pull back the trigger.

The arrogant lizard hurtles into the air. Ecstatic, I race into the kitchen calling out, “Look, Dad! I did it!”

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