Just Go Around It

Just Go Around It by Big Frank Dickinson 

When Big Frank was a kid (yes, he was like everyone - a kid) he made spending money shoveling walks, raking and mowing lawns. A number of years ago, while on a visit back to his old hometown of Dickinson, ND,  Big Frank showed his daughter, Gina, and niece, Julia, one he'd cleared predawn in the NoDak cold. They both thought it was cruel that the owner of that sidewalk, a Doctor, hadn’t invited Big Frank, who was actually at that time only six years old - a Little Frank, in at 20 below zero. See above for  a photo of the girls pretending that they were shoveling snow. The smiles show you it’s all in fun, but way back then when Big Frank was six; it sucked. We walked around town and Big Frank pointed out other homes that he had done chores for when a kid; Big Frank divided them in two: always invited in or not. It was either always or never. Mrs. Clark, always served lemonade with cookies and we sat and ate them together. Her son became a priest and hit on Big Frank's mom. These people, with their big lawyer-moneyed walk, on a corner lot with a double wide driveway, and lots of skinny interior paths only opened the door when asked to pay. Another guy invited Big Frank in more than anyone. I used to mow Dr. Connor's lawn and put on storm windows for him in the fall. He would sit at the kitchen table and look out back at Big Frank working his push mower. His back yard was full of all kinds of stuff and when Big Frank would come on to something like a bike, he would lean out the window and yell: “That’s OK, just mow around it.” His son got in trouble after high school and enlisted to stay out of jail; got sent to Viet Nam and was shot. Big Frank remembers sending him his first letter of condolence that he ever wrote. It was at he Uncle Jack’s in Pennsylvania where Big Frank had been sent to give his mother some peace during the summer of 1968 (that's a story for another time). Uncle Jack offered to help write it, but Big Frank was offended at the offer; and sat down at a desk to write it himself. It was tough going, but he wrote what he knew. Our families had been friends and Big Frank had liked his son, Doug. He threw the wickedest curve ball ever. He could make that ball jump, dance, and zoom inside and out. Nobody could put more stuff on a baseball than he could. So that’s what Big Frank wrote his dad; straight to the point: how he was sorry about his son having gotten shot and how he’d miss him and ended by praising his curve ball saying that it was the best Big Frank had ever seen; and then mailed the note, sure that what had been written was true of what he knew, his loss, and included some praise. But still it seemed such a weak thing to give someone whose son was dead. Big Frank was surprised in the years ahead when that letter was pulled out again and again and as it was read to Big Frank, Dr. Connor would smile, thinking of his son. It was then that Big Frank: knew he hadn’t gone around that one.