HIS BOTTLE, MY BOTTLE & CHUCK CONNORS HELPED BABYSIT
Orlando slept only as a biological imperative. While I had seen some babies thoroughly enjoy rest, this child was not one of them. And that was a furthering bond between us - we were both creatures of consciousness. Life happened while you were up and at it. Closing our eyes was not an option and this six-pound-ish collection of shared DNA was hellbent to squeeze all the life out that he could.
Even if it was 4AM in the morning and that was often when Orlando decided his world started.
I would feed him the bottle and debate grabbing a bottle of my own. His was plastic and full of nutrient-giving milk. Mine would be glass and full of mind-saving alcohol.
My search, my quest for something to do at 4AM on Saturday mornings while I rocked this kid in my lap was near Odyssey.
And my hunt for cerebral distraction led me to stop on AMC, Channel 30.
I saw black and white familiarity. I heard the echoing gunfire that I had known in my childhood while watching television. Only one show started this way… Only one man could shoot that fast…
It was the western TV series "The Rifleman." I smiled. What better to watch as I brew my fledgling daddy wings than one of the ultimate father-son television shows of all time? Every episode began with the thirteen shots of the modified Winchester wielded with superhuman accuracy by the legendary Rifleman (he only fires twelve times but producers put in thirteen firing sounds in case the announcer overshadowed a shot.) And then Lucas McCain, the titular hero of the show, would begin some Wild West adventure in the town of Norfolk where bandits, thieves, land barons and other black hats would swoop in for ill intent. Ever the reluctant hero, McCain would eventually have to fall back on his quick trigger to save the day. But he was more than just a sharpshooter square-jawed hero. The character of the Rifleman was a father, a real dad trying to do the best he could raising a young boy alone. And in-between handling desperadoes and the like, McCain was teaching his son right from wrong and that a father's love is always there.
And there it began, every Saturday morning, in the ungodly wee hours of the morning, Orlando would bellow out for food. I would rise and tend to him with Chuck Connors helping babysit. While I enjoyed the gunslinger and air-crack of that modified Winchester, I now relished on a deeper level the Rifleman's truest skill - fatherhood.