For Whom The Bell Tolls

For as long as I can remember, there has been a camel-bell hanging on the wall of my kitchen. It’s not pretty. It’s cumbersome, the wood is cracked, the rope is crusty. I wish I could at least say that the bell makes a nice sound, reticent of Arabian nights in the desert… it doesn’t. It’s clunky, bordering on grotesque. But it means something to my family.

My father’s father bought it off the neck of a real camel while they were living abroad during my dad’s youth. Traveling the world gave him a wide range of experiences as a kid, including visiting Stonehenge in Britain, the Louvre Museum in France, and many other things I hope to experience myself someday. Their years in Africa also exposed him to the UV rays that would later resurface as pre-cancer cells in his skin.

My dad is my hero. Not only did he successfully fight off those cells, he started his own business while working full-time, coached my sports teams, owned Jeopardy on a nightly basis, and developed a lovely singing voice without formal training. But a huge part of why he is my hero is the way he shaped who I am today.

When I was about four years old, my dad told me that if I ran fast enough, I would turn into a wolf. I spent years trying. I wish I could remember the look on my kindergarten teacher’s face when her obligatory “What do you want to be when you grow up?” was met with a quadrupedal answer. My father also told me that “Home Depot” was pronounced “home dee-pot”, and that I should ask for armadillos at the front desk.

The point is, he taught me judgement. At four years old, I could not discriminate between good and bad directions, and I trusted everyone from relatives to telemarketers. Now, I am always careful to consider what is being asked of me, and I make informed decisions based on my own experiences and knowledge. Because of my father’s sagacity and pranks, I no longer blindly follow directions, or buy things impulsively. I have learned to think for myself, and that is something I will never forget.

That damned camel-bell is utterly unpleasant. But my father’s past is rich, littered with cultural diversity that his peppered complexion simply cannot convey. So the bell will continue its clamorous reign over our kitchen until the last threads of its tether have snapped; and until its final toll, may God have mercy on anyone unlucky enough to hit their head on it.