June 18, 2022
Father’s Day Weekend
My dad is a man who doesn’t draw attention to himself and out of respect for his privacy, I often say very little to put him in the spotlight. If I am honest, I also find it difficult to explain our relationship. My dad, my brother Jimmy and I are forged together by blood as well as through the common grief of losing the woman who brought life, love, laughter, comfort, and peace to our home. The man I knew before my mother’s death buried a lot of himself when his young wife’s body was lowered into the grave. In my own immaturity, it took me many years to realize that I selfishly wanted him to be the same after my momma died, when there’s no possible way he could have been. It’s taken me a long time to offer grace and to see beyond my own pain, to forgive him for the things he has been unable to address because of his own sadness. I always knew, through everything, that my dad loves me. It wasn’t because he was able to tell me in so many words because he never told me that he loved me when I was growing up.
My favorite photo of my dad and me together is one taken when I was very young. When I look closely at that photograph, I see a man who knew happiness, had hope for the future and exhibited pride in the little girl he holds safely in his arms. I remember how he use to have the energy to play with me even after a long day at work. I recall the way he laughed, teased, and loudly participated in life with those with whom he felt comfortable. I remember all of us being happy. However, for most of my life, the mental image I have of my dad is that of a weary man with stooped shoulders, and feet that dragged a little as he walked. He was usually covered in dirt, grease, sawdust, or the unique blend of assembly-line-sweaty-grime. He gave 8-12 hours of his day to Ford Motor Company and that was in addition to over two hours of travel time he spent getting there. He left for work long before I was awake and returned in time for a few necessary chores, supper, and shower before falling into bed at 8 pm. During the recession of the mid-1970s, laid off from Ford, he did whatever he could to make ends meet. Even though we lived in some humble dwellings, we always had good food and plenty of it. Dad made sure his kids never went hungry. He kept a large garden always. In the fall, he made sure we picked up walnuts. In the winter, for a few minutes, before he went to bed, he would often sit by the woodstove in the basement, cracking and shelling walnuts a little each night while he rested his tired feet. He didn’t finish school, but he did pass his GED while he was in the military and has long been an avid reader. Drafted during the Vietnam War he was sent to the Berlin Wall that once divided Communist Germany from its free sister on the other side. I was a girl, so he didn’t talk about his military days with me. I only knew that he had been there and that it must have been a strange experience for a young man who had never ventured far from “The Mountain”, his home in north Georgia. Uncle Sam was the first thing to take him away from home. Later, the responsibility he felt for his young wife and infant daughter gave him the courage to leave a second time. As I was growing up, I was always under the impression that his time in Missouri was temporary and that someday he would return to his roots in Georgia, but he never did. Still, I don’t think Missouri has ever felt like home to him.
I don’t think my dad ever knew quite what to do with the strong-willed, partially feral, hot-tempered, and overly sensitive first-born child he had in me. Then again, perhaps he did. The older I get, the more I realize how much like him I am. Each of his four children has distinct traits passed to us from our father, but I think I may possibly have more. People use to tell me often that I reminded them of my mother, but I think that’s because they wanted me to be like her. Truth be known, I’m mostly like my father.
I wasn’t coddled like a lot of girls I knew and when I turned 18, it was time for me to move on. Daddy and I both knew it. He said he would pay for half of my first year of college and I could pay for the other half. After that, I was on my own. I will never forget the day I left home because it’s the first day I ever remember my dad telling me that he loved me. I had always known he loved all four of his children by the way he took care of us. I knew by the sacrifices he made. I knew because in the early mornings when the household was asleep, he would move from bed to bed and look to make sure each of his children was tucked in safe before he left for work. Silently, in the darkness, hovering close to our beds so as not to draw attention to himself he was saying “I love you” through his actions.
My dad wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Like all of us, he had his faults. He yelled a lot. He got frustrated and overwhelmed. The tattoo on his arm spoke volumes about his attitude at times. He wouldn’t read it to me when I was little and ran my fingers over the letters, but I could read it for myself when I got older. “Born to Lose” it said. He had known loss from an early age. His dad and an older sister who was like a second mother to him passed away on the very same day when he was but a small boy. His life had been overshadowed by a lot of hardship. But he let his own pain make him aware. Behind the scenes, anonymously, quietly he has helped others in need over the years, even at times when it must have been difficult for him. He has a big heart, a kind heart. He doesn’t want to be noticed or recognized in that regard, but it’s true. His heart is tender toward all creatures and stewardship of the earth is part of his daily routine.
Dynamics in families are unique and while I love my daddy so much, I’ve never found a reason to return home once I left. There was a strain for many years by the choice I made in my first marriage, and it just wasn’t possible for me to go home under those circumstances. Then, the distance and my career choices have also come between visits with my dad. We have met in Georgia a few times and once he even came to Virginia to see me but mostly our contact has been sporadic. I started keeping in touch better during Covid. Daddy wanted me to text him, even though he doesn’t know how to respond. Every night for several years now, I send him a text around 7pm. I tell him about my day, the weather, and whatever I can think of to take up some space and give him something to read. We also started a weekly ritual of my calling him on Sundays. Some Sundays he talks for a whole 15-20 minutes and other times we may only speak for a moment. Neither one of us really like to talk on the phone. There’s a lot left unsaid in our relationship. I think we both know that many things just don’t matter now. The things that do, we’ve either finally talked about them or we know that we might get around to it someday. If we don’t, that’s ok too. The most important thing is that I know my dad loves me. He always has. He always will. He never misses an opportunity now to say “I Love You” even though I already know it.
I learned many things by observing my dad. I try to mirror his kindness to others, his generosity, his good stewardship practices, the conservative way he handles his finances, his work ethic, and his refusal to gossip and speak ill of others.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you.