As I was driving with my traditional, conservative Mother-in-Law, we passed the local Shriners lodge.  I said under my breath, "Damn Shriners," an almost sub-conscious reflex for me.

She was surprised.  But in a feeling of openness that is not always my way with her, I decided to fess up, because I knew it seemed a strange organization to hate, with their charities for crippled children, their iconic fez hats, their little boats/cars/horses in the parades...all that fun retro '50's stuff.  ("No man stands as tall as when he bends down to help a crippled child."-a local lodge's motto)

My father was a Shriner, a Mason, and an Elk.  He had brothers of every ilk (and elk, as it were). 

 I lived 15 miles down the road, but I never saw him.  Except on parade day.  He would come clopping up on his Shriner mount, a beige horse with a blonde mane.  He would always stop his horse near my mother and me and they would speak for a few minutes.  His tack had large bells on it and I always thought that the friendly man with the white beard just might be Santa off season.  I later found out that "the man on the horse" was my father.

In his obituary, he left money to his church, the local children's home, and his wife (not my mother).  He was touted as one of the greatest generation, an Air Force veteran with enough ribbons and medals to cover his coat.  A WWII certifed, bonafide hero.  Oh what an awesome man he must have been and what a tragedy he died so young, 67.

He also let his child live in extreme poverty because he wasn't man enough to take on his responsibilites publicly.  My mother and he didn't get along any longer, so I guess I was just collateral damage from a mis-spent youth. 

While he lived on a ranch with peacocks strolling the grounds, I lived in a house without running water. 

While he rode his horse in parades celebrating the greatest generation, I worked in hot fields alongside my mother for a share of the crops. 

While he celebrated life nightly with his fellow Shriners, I prayed each night that no one at school would ever find out what life was like at home.

I hate peacocks.

Each year there is a parade with Shriners in their little cars decorated like little boats here on the coast.  They ride by and I thank god that at least they are not on horses.   And I wonder how many of the chubby, fez-wearing, jolly old men have children they don't acknowledge.  And how many more of them know others who do, and accept them nonetheless as brothers.

Damn Shriners.