It’s Father’s Day and fitting to pay tribute to the daddy who shaped me in many ways into the person I am today. I love you, Dad.
My earliest memories of my daddy are hazy. They center around a sand box, a white picket fence where my leg became stuck after climbing it when I wasn’t supposed to, and he had to rescue me, and the basement of the first house I lived in. As I remember, dad and I were checking out the basement for things left behind because we were moving to a new house. I can still see my doll cradle tucked up under the stairs, and for some reason I didn’t tell him about it, so it didn’t come with me to my new home.
I wasn’t much of a talker. I think I was more of an observer. Being an introvert has its drawbacks.
I followed him around like a puppy dog and as I got just a little older, I became his helper.
He remodeled kitchens and bathrooms and bedrooms, and I was always hanging around watching him work and fetching the tools he needed and holding the ladder for him. He always knew the answers to everything and he was my hero. When my momma would say to me out of frustration – “left handed people can’t do nothing right!” He would pull me aside and say – “you can do anything you put your mind to.”
And his voice is the one I’ve always believed. Because he’s right.
Of course, we didn’t always get along. My teen age years were difficult for the both of us, what with boyfriends and learning to drive and gaining independence and every terrifying thing that comes with it.
My parents came from the mountains of West Virginia where college education wasn’t on their list of possibles, and for them growing up, graduating high school was usually not happening, either. But my dad worked hard and got his GED, then went on to become an electrician while he worked 40-plus hours a week at the shop for General Motors. He put his mind to something and he accomplished it.
So, when he offered to send me to a community college when I graduated high school with honors, I stupidly turned it down and I’m still kicking myself to this day. But that was a long time ago, and many tears ago, too.
We have always seemed to be able to understand each other, my dad and me. Momma, bless her heart, didn’t get either one of us. She would get angry at dad and expect me to side with her and when I didn’t she’d get mad at me too. She was an emotional woman looking for a bosom buddy to agree with her assessment of the horribleness of the situation and I didn’t fit the bill. That’s why she and my sister got along so well. They commiserated together about the unfairness of things.
At momma’s funeral, it was me that dad sat next to. It was me that made sure he was ok. It was me that stayed up with him, staying close, waiting to see what he might need. It was me that anticipated what his life was going to look like after momma was gone. It was me that he confided in and I turned into his counselor, listening and encouraging and praying for him.
My dad’s commitment to his marriage, his unconditional love for his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren is a study in steadfastness that many have forgotten in our day and age. How he patiently and tenderly cared for momma as she struggled with dementia and devolved into someone we didn’t know and who she didn’t know anymore either, is one of the strongest examples of courage I’ve ever had the privilege of witnessing.
He has always been the anchor keeping us safe in the storms. He is the one with wisdom and patience, explaining in simple language again and again how to do something. His voice is the one that calms my heart and stills my fears.
At 81 years young, his step is slower and his early Parkinson’s causes his hand to tremble uncontrollably. He can’t do many of the things he used to be able to do. But he’ll always be my role model and the voice I look forward to hearing answer the phone when I call.
The last time I ever hear these words –“hello, sweet thing!” will be a sad day indeed.
