COLUMN: Cannon

When it comes to useful life skills, my wheelhouse is pretty much empty.

I mean, I guess I can drive a car (poorly, according to some.) I can cook a few things (kinda.) I know how to dump my clothes in the washer and press the "make them clean" button. By and large, though, I'm proudly inept at most basic abilities that humans need to survive. Let's just say that if the apocalypse hits and we can only save 100 people in a bunker somewhere for the future of humanity, I doubt anyone's gonna speak up and go, "Ooh, what about that fat guy with the cats who makes awesome mixtapes? The human race needs THAT dude for sure."

I'm okay with it. I play to my strengths, and I'm fine with myself, ineptitude and all. But if I ever need a reminder that there are people far better equipped to handle life than myself, I need only visit my parents.

You know everything I just said? Take the exact OPPOSITE of that, and you have my dad. You know that TV series that drops people in the middle of the Alaska wilderness and the goal is to simply be the last one who doesn't tap out? I'm pretty my dad could win that, even at age 77. At the very least, he'd teach everyone how to build a house before he left. When my dad faces problems, he looks for solutions. When I face problems, I look for the nearest phone to call him.  

My dad has one hobby that consumes much of his free time: CANNONS. Weird, right?  If you were to drive my dad past a vintage cannon in a park, he could tell you with one glance its complete history. Except you CAN'T drive him past a vintage cannon without stopping to marvel at its innate cannon-ness or whatever. I collect music, dad collects cannons. He's a cannon guy, I guess. To each their own.

For as long as I can remember, my dad's dream has always been to MAKE a cannon. Not some cutesy miniature toy for a mantlepiece, either. We're talking a proper full-size, umpteen-kajillion-pound cannon. I guess if Iowa ever decides to invade, my dad wants defensive tactical fortification.

There's just been one thing stopping him from his dream: everything else. I don't want to insinuate that I'm especially needy or anything, but occasionally I've asked my dad for a favor here or there. You know, simple stuff like, "Hey, dad, if you're not super busy or anything, I was wondering if you might want to spend the next six months remodeling my basement." You know, easy requests like that. 

But somehow -- sandwiched into quick moments between life, love, and an idiot son -- he's been making cannon progress. If you're thinking "make a cannon" meant buying a barrel and some wheels and snapping them together, you don't know my dad. He's spent years building a massive in-ground furnace (I almost called it a "forge" the other day. He corrected me.) He designed casting forms (that's probably the wrong term, too.) He procured bronze ingots. And this past weekend, it was time for the first attempt at pouring the barrel. This was a moment years in the making, and I wasn't about to miss it.

My best friend and I arrived on the scene Saturday morning, and it was NOT what I'd expected. Around the furnace stood my dad and his friends in shiny silver heat suits like they were late for an Among Us cosplay convention or something. There was a videographer. Neighbors and fellow cannon enthusiasts turned up in lawn chairs. There was even a masked dude standing half a football field away -- I later found out he'd tested positive for COVID but couldn't miss this grand event. 

It was really cool -- except it was anything BUT cool. It was already hot and humid and that was BEFORE the molten metal and the ominous roar of the furnace. I was more concerned with trying not to act like a ninny every time a wasp flew near, which was often. I ran drinks for the thirsty, mostly so I could bask in the air conditioning of the house. My friend asked how I could've possibly come from a family like this. My mom told him that even as a baby, I was terrified of grass and would pull my arms and legs up and start crying if she dared allow my bare skin to come in contact with nature.

They got the metal poured just before rain moved in. Apart from dad nearly collapsing from the heat, it went well. As of press time, he hasn't opened to see the results yet. The working theory is that it'll be a test run and much was learned and could be improved upon for the next attempt. I'm happy he's fulfilling his insanely difficult, incomprehsibly hot dream. No one seemed keen on my idea of earning extra retirement money by opening a discount crematorium.

The minute the rain hit, I opted to help my mom back in the house. "We should probably face the facts," she said to me as we got away from the big show. "You and I are indoor people." I couldn't agree more. But if my dad ever needs a bangin' mixtape, he knows who to call.