During the most awkward, pimply phase of my life, my father could usually be found in the… During the most awkward, pimply phase of my life, my father could usually be found in the creek across the street. The divorce was imminent, looming over all our heads like a nightmarish, cloudy specter. Everyone was on edge, especially my mother, as every time my dad entered the house, he’d find himself under the hot interrogation light:

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Shimon, why you do? What are you the coming home so late? Where you beaaaan?!’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ His answer was always the same. He gruffly shrugged his shoulders and, as he tried to shuffle away from the spitting hydra, he muttered, almost inaudibly: ‘Jiffy Lube.’ Always Jiffy Lube.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Immediately after, he’d have a dinner plate zip past his head, crash against the wall, and a fight, entirely in Hebrew, sounding like two chickens hastily clucking at each other, would break out.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ The staunch, hermit-like, balding bear that was my father needed a release. Growing weary and crazed from the clumsy cycle of hate-repulsion-make up-quiet-repulsion-repulsion, he evaded my mother by beginning the project that would change all our lives: he started building a beaver dam.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Initially, it was a small endeavor. He’d save himself a few hours of arguments by going to the creek, piling together a few small rocks as a mini-barrier against the oncoming tides, and every so often gaily splashing his feet in the cool stream while plotting his revenge. With any luck, by the time he returned, my mother was asleep on the couch or too ensconced in the latest Seinfeld to care. His reverse siege was working splendidly.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ But then the dam became an obsession. Using a concoction of rocks, mud and leaves, he’d manipulate the mighty creek into submission. Under my father’s stoutly beaver-tailed engineering, the stream slowed and swelled on one side of the barrier and trickled lightly on the bed of colorful rocks and forest muck on the other. Every weekend, he’d wake up at the first light of dawn, come to his children and hesitantly query (and just for reference, he sounds like a mentally-deficient Dr. Evil), ‘You guys wanna go build da dam wit your fadder?’ Still, very sleepy, we usually never went, reacting with a mixture of shock and perplexity, since he rarely spoke to us and we’d forgotten what he looked like. He’d nod his head apologetically and lightly penguin-shuffle away.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ He’d spend every weekend out there by himself, working on the dam, building it, standing back with arms proudly crossed to behold its majesty. Some nights, the rain would wake him, and he’d instinctually put on his worn tennis shoes and mono-colored jumpsuit, preparing to rush to the creek:

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Shimon, what dis? Go backward to da bed!’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘No way, you succubus bitch. I gotta go to da save dat dam!’ And as he rushed out of the bedroom, a dinner plate would inevitably zip by his head. Then, all night, he’d fight against the burgeoning waters, as out a rainy window we would watch slivers of his sedulous, deliberate movements under the sudden flashes of lightning, hoping for his return.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ As he gnawed on bark with both hands, grew out his beard, and invited over his wild animal friends, he had become less a husband or a father, but a Beaver Dad — and so that’s what we dubbed him. He’d spend almost every waking hour pouring his love and efforts into the dam, perfecting it, expanding it.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Then something broke. In the midst of repulsion cycle No. 2, a hurricane blew a hair’s breadth away from our little suburb, ripping open a full-force tsunami on our street. The creek had flooded all the way up to its mouth. By daybreak, the beaver dam was decimated, hollowed out — a remindful semblance of its visage remained in tattered shards of rock and dirt. We all came out to see it. Viewing the carnage, my father donned the stoic expression of a veteran soldier seeing his closest friend gunned down by enemy fire. There was so much pain expressed in every tinge of his soft, wrinkled skin, every pouting sigh of relief and contempt.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ It was over. The fever had broken. We all shuffled back into the house together and began to rebuild it again.

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Ben Rubin’s column was brought to you by the Rand Corporation. E-mail him at [email protected].