El Paso Natural Gas

While childhood memories hold a vivid place in our minds—often an innocent place because experience has not yet revealed the shades of grey in our human condition—memories created as adults hold a depth of shared experiences, of background of culture and history.

My father is a meticulous man. The ultimate B-Type personality. Each task under his fingers occupies his entire presence; a true concentration and investment in each moment. An excellent way to live, actually.

Anyway, this meticulous nature is best seen in his record keeping. Decades passed; we aged—the child I was became the adult I am, and my relationship with my parents became more a loving friendship than the "keepers of wisdom." Then a few years ago, my father decided it was time to reveal the mysteries of his record keeping to me. Now I can be logical; I am misfortunately too often derailed by detail, but when all is said and done, I'm a writer. My brain makes connections and weaves patterns at will. Maybe one of these days, I'll write a story about "a willful brain," but at that moment, seated beside my father, I needed to read and absorb the logic of his record keeping.

As we read through the entries, my father patiently explained and answered my questions. Dozens of ledger pages later with dozens of ledger pages yet unturned—columns, figures, cross references—I had absorbed about as much as I could, when he turned over the page and he read aloud the name on the page.

"El Paso Natural Gas."

I cracked up. I began laughing—the type of laughter where you have no means of stopping until the lack of air has collapsed your lungs. I inhaled shakily, then saw my father's confused face. I keeled over sideways, laughing until my ribs rattled and my nose ran and my eyes teared. I laughed until my throat hurt. He was beginning to laugh, but only because of the infection of my laughter. I could see he still didn't understand what had set me off.

"Dad! EL PASO (ahem) 'natural gas' (ahem)?"

Now there is something precious in watching someone's face comprehend a joke, but there is something infinitely more precious in seeing a father realize that his "baby girl" had perceived a scatological joke in the name of a company in which he held stock. There is the father's shock, and yet the adult's amusement. He began to laugh, and of course, my mother had perceived the joke long before, and she was soaking up the byplay as well.

Now—years later—El Paso Natural Gas has changed its name, and of course, my meticulous father updated the records, but the old name remains firmly in mind whenever we turn over the pages of the ledger.