My dad came into my life
when I was two years and 8 months old. It is, I think, just about the
first memory in my storage bank and one I treasure still.
My mom was a widow and she and my grandma moved with me from Tennessee to Idaho when I was a year old because that's where two of Mom’s brothers were living at the time. I don't remember riding the train, or a lot about anything that happened before I met my dad. I do remember the little shack we lived in before he joined us, especially the bathroom, but that's a tale for another day.
Anyway, there we were,
me and Grandma, just hanging out, maybe reading a book. The room was dimly lit
by an oil lamp, sparsely furnished and Grandma was sitting on a wooden
chair near the metal stove that provided heat. The door opened and my mother
came in, followed by someone I'd never seen before. I scurried behind Grandma,
shyly peeking around her at this new person.
My mother smiled and
said, "Don't be scared, Paula. This is your new daddy."
And, there he was, right
up beside her in the room with a big smile on his face. He looked all friendly
and nice, but once I grew up and looked back at that memory, I realized he may
have been smiling, but he was probably even more scared than me. After all, he
didn’t just marry mom, he took on her mother and a little daughter. He had to
have loved my mom so much to have taken on wife with so much baggage. And, once
I grew up and could look at my parent’s relationship as an adult, it was quite
apparent they loved each other until death they did part. In fact, my mother
continued loving daddy for another 20 years and looked forward to being with
him again.
I don't remember my
response to this strange man upon our first meet and greet, but he was the best
daddy my mom could possibly have found…the only thing missing on a “want” list
would have been lots of money. But, the money wasn’t important, what was way
more important was that never once did I doubt daddy loved me, even
when mom gave him a son and daughter. He always made me feel special,
called me, "Little One," and believed I was capable of
accomplishing anything I set out to achieve.
The only memory I have
of our being at odds with each other and fighting was when I was in high
school. It was spring or summer and I don’t even remember what we were arguing
about. Daddy was on one side of the dining room table and I was on the other. I
got so exasperated with him, I picked up the vase of flowers I’d picked and put
on the table and threw it at him. I was immediately horrified by what I’d done,
and that might have been the first time he’d ever hit me if I hadn’t looked so
ridiculous. When I grabbed the vase, I did it with two hands and raised it over
my head. The water and flowers cascaded over the top of my head. As daddy came around
the table, I grabbed up one of the flowers. Its stem was broken and as daddy
approached me, I shook it at him and the flower bobbed up and down.
“Don’t you dare touch
me!!! Don’t you touch me.” I yelled, then dropped the flower and ran from the
room.
How daddy managed to
keep a straight face at my appearance I have no idea. We never talked about
that incident and I met my mother at the bus that night so I could prepare her
for homecoming. Daddy acted as if nothing had happened and had cleaned up the flowers,
water and broken vase. I don’t know if he and mom talked about it later or had
a good laugh, but she never said anything to me either.
Daddy left me after 30
years. He was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor the day after my 31st
birthday and it took his life 18 days before my next birthday. But, 30 years,
three decades, is a lot of time and it is chock full of memories I cherish. I
could probably type for hours and still not provide a title for all the
slides in my personal PowerPoint. We danced...my small feet on his when I was
very small and again at my wedding. We camped and fished...caught my first
catfish on Lake Pend Orielle even though daddy had to bait the hook and
take the fish off.
Growing up, the entire
family laughed and commiserated every single day it was possible at the dinner
table...a practice I brought to my own marriage and family. We shared the highs
and lows and the joys and sorrows of each day there. Some of the memories
created at table still have the power to make me smile, laugh or even cry. We
went as a family on picnics, family reunions and even a few vacation trips.
Those trips weren’t anything fancy, just car trips to places in the Northwest.
I do remember the trip to Crater Lake and the one to southern California the
summer after I graduated high school. I didn’t want to go, but my mother didn’t
drive and I did, so I went as daddy’s relief driver.
When John came into my
life, he and daddy got along as if they were old friends. Daddy walked me down
the aisle and gave me away to John. Daddy was a baker, so he took vacation time
and made and decorated our wedding cake…it was very special to me. For the next
11 years, all of us went camping, shared family dinners and played cards. From
something John said years later, I think he was as devastated by daddy’s death
as I was.
When it came to fathers,
I was extremely luck in having John as a daddy. He carried on some of the
traditions with which he’d grown up. I once asked John where he learned to be
such a good dad because I knew his own growing up experiences had been awful.
He told me he learned from the Watkins family. The amazing thing about that
statement is the parents ended up divorcing and the kids did not turn out very
well.
I think John learned
from my dad as well. They had some great times together, were both die-hard
sports fans, and liked to fish. The year daddy was dying, he would not give up
driving no matter what I said or did, including not allowing AJ to spend the
night at my parents because I couldn’t trust him not to put AJ in the car and
drive. My parents came to watch the Sonics win the championship and I don’t
know what John said to dad, but when he drove himself and mom home that night,
he hung up the keys.
My tale of fathers
doesn’t end here though because I also had a biological father. I was unable to
identify and find him until I was 69 years old. Imagine finding out you have
another whole family at that age. That man was no longer alive, but I met his
son, my half-brother, most of his sisters and brothers, and his best friend.
Based on what I learned about this man and the kind of man my brother is, I
would say he was undoubtedly a great father as well.
I so wish I could have
had daddy in my life for another 30, 40 or even 50 years. I wish he could have
seen his first grandson, whom he loved dearly, grow up to be the wonderful,
compassionate and beautiful man he is now, a father in his own right. I wish my
younger son could have experienced that special grandpa-grandson bond that so
enriched his older brother's life...I feel as though he was cheated of
something very special. I know our granddaughter had a great relationship with
her Pa; and, again, I wish John had been allowed more time to be a Grandpa to
his grandson.
Heck, as long as I'm
wishing, I wish I could, just once more, hear daddy's voice call me
"Little One." No one has called me that since I was 31 and I miss
it...I miss him...still. I wish John were here so we could argue about when to
have his birthday dinner. When the boys were growing up, we always celebrated
his birthday on Father’s Day…a two for one. John had a hard time letting that
go when his own sons became fathers and needed that special day with their own
progeny.
Happy Father's Day to
all the daddies of my life. Biological daddy thank-you for giving me life and a
wonderful brother. Daddy, thank you for raising me with love and for loving my
mom. John, thank you for being such a good daddy and partnering with me in the
creation and raising of two amazing men. Thanks to all three of you, I have a
filing cabinet full of memories I will always cherish.