The Gifts My Father Gave Me

If you were to ask me who the greatest influence in my life has been, I would respond with absolute certainty – My Daddy! All of my siblings and I are like Dad in temperament; a fact I am rather proud of considering the other side of that coin, but of the four of us, I was fortunate enough to spend the most time with him.  When Margret and Dennis were growing up, Daddy was in the military and afterward worked long days in order to provide for his growing young family.  By the time I came along (Daddy was 40 when I was born) life was more settled and routine and he had time to spend with Jeffrey and me. And, at that time, mother was approaching the long, dark years of her life and Daddy knew that I needed his stabilizing influence. From the day I was born I had him wrapped around my little finger, and he owned my heart. To say that I was a daddy’s girl is something of an understatement. I adored the man! He was my whole world.

Daddy gave me a lot of gifts. I couldn’t tell you what most of the tangible ones were – I don’t remember them. I had toys, dolls, sports equipment – pretty much anything I wanted, within reason. We were not a wealthy family, but I didn’t know that.  No, the gifts he gave me that I remember most, and for which I am most grateful, are those intangible things that I carry within me, those parts of himself that he passed down to me and which have become so much of my own personality.

There is a favorite story among my family of how, at the age of eighteen months, I almost died of grief when my father was sent out of town for job training.  Daddy had recently begun a job as a civilian employee of the defense department.  His new position as a contract specialist required him to attend school for seven weeks.  I was generally a jovial baby and an energetic toddler but not long after daddy left, I became listless and lethargic and refused to eat. When forced to eat, nothing stayed down. Terrified that I had contracted some horrible disease, mother rushed me to the doctor.  Unable to find anything wrong, the doctor reasoned that more than likely I had a “bug” I would quickly get over.  But I didn’t.  Instead, I got progressively worse, losing a dangerous amount of weight and crying almost constantly.  Finally, the doctors determined that I would have to be hospitalized to save my life.  Convinced that my death was imminent, my frantic mother started placing calls to my father.  Mother was pacing the floor with me in her arms when Daddy was finally able to return the calls.  Heartbroken by my plaintive cries, daddy told mother to put the phone to my ear so he could talk to me. That was all it took.  Relieved that I had not in fact been abandoned by the one I so adored, I happily babbled to daddy for a little while then sat down in the middle of the kitchen table and ate everything I could reach.  And so, for the rest of his time in training, daddy had to make an expensive, long-distance phone call every day just so I would eat.  One of my most cherished possessions is a picture of me sitting on the kitchen table with the phone in both little hands pressed against my cheek while mother shoved scrambled eggs in my mouth.  All was again right in the world.  

Daddy sacrificed a lot of sleep, patience and hair on my account.  My childish exuberance was often more than mother could bear but daddy never seemed to mind.  I could be running around like a wild Indian (a favorite saying of his) and he would either stand by placidly watching or, if he’d had enough, he would grab me and hold me tight in one arm until I calmed myself. Unfortunately I learned early in life that the best way to survive mother was to be neither seen nor heard and I became more quiet and introverted as I got older. But those earlier times were pure magic to me. Sometimes, I’d wear him out to the point he fell asleep in the floor and other times he’d corral me into his chair and have me read to him.  I would catch him sleeping and poke him lightly to wake him.  He always said the same thing “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just resting my eyes.” Sure Daddy.

My favorite place in the world was to be curled up in his lap. Whenever I wanted or needed, I was free to climb up for some snuggle time. Whether I was sad, frightened, sleepy, sick or just wanting to be near him, he never rejected me, no matter how old I was.  Sometimes, I got a little jealous when I had to share his lap with Amanda or Kristi or Stacey but he never scolded me for being a brat. He would just make room for me too.  I fondly remember sitting in his lap in the big easy chair, me on one side and Amanda on the other, watching TV and munching on popcorn, comforted in his peaceful, happy spirit.  That was paradise.

 Whenever I was awakened at night with a bad dream, or a scary thunderstorm, it was always Daddy who came to the rescue. Admittedly, sometimes I just couldn’t sleep and I would fake a nightmare so he would come and stay with me.  Folding himself into my small bed, he would cuddle me up against his chest.  Usually he went back to sleep immediately, but I didn’t care. I would lay snuggled up against his warmth, giggling quietly over his loud snoring, happy and secure in the knowledge that he loved me like no other.  My young heart was convinced that I could face anything as long as he was beside me. To this day, I have the quiet strength that was born within the circle of his loving embrace. I carry it like a shield. It is perhaps the greatest gift he ever gave me.

Besides his strength, Daddy gave me his sense of humor. He was a naturally happy person who found joy in the smallest things, and he was wickedly funny. He was a great storyteller with a dry, sarcastic wit that was sharp as a knife and he could be a manic practical joker. I learned early on to laugh at myself, because if I didn’t he was going to. He never missed an opportunity to teach me that it was dangerous to take yourself too seriously.  I don’t remember him ever actually telling a joke, but he had a plethora of witticism that he used like ammunition. Perfect example:

Mother had a store of folk-lore wisdoms that she spouted off like a college professor giving a lecture.  She had an answer for everything. If the caterpillars were fuzzy, winter was going to be bad. If a bird flew into a window, a family member was going to die. If your nose itched, company was coming.  Those sorts of things were daily fare with her.

One day, we were driving through the country on the way to visit relatives. Mother, being in one of her better moods, was pointing out one little piece of wisdom after the other to us kids in the back seat, each point being prefaced with the phrase “do you know what it means when….”.  Suddenly, my normally quiet father spoke up, pointing at a herd of cattle lying in the field and asked me;

 “Little girl? Do you know what it means when the cows are laying down like that?”

 I answered in a reverent whisper, expecting some great jewel of knowledge to fall from his lips.

“No Daddy. What does it mean?”

“Means they’re tired!” he crowed.

Jeff and I collapsed in laughter in the back seat.

Mother didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.

 I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. It still makes me laugh.

With that small joke, Daddy taught me that the best weapon against negative, unhappy, arrogant people is humor. I think it’s what kept him sane all those years. Even to the end of his days, despite living with my mother for sixty-three years and then suffering the indignities of Alzheimer’s, he remained a jovial being. It was simply his nature. During the latter part of his illness, I would often have to spend the night at his house to care for him and mother.  Quite often, he would awaken me in the middle of the night by peeking his head into the door and screaming “boo!”. Then he would scamper down the hall, laughing gleefully.  I would chase him down the hall and into the living room, both of us laughing at the game. After I coaxed him back into bed, I’d tuck him in and kiss his forehead as he had done me when I was a child. 

One of the best jokes he ever played on me came just a few weeks before his death.  It was a Saturday morning and mother had called me, frantic, convinced that daddy was either dying or already dead.  I rushed to their house and ran into his bedroom.  He was laying on his back, still and quiet, his hands folded across his chest.  He did indeed appear to be dead.  My heart fluttered in panic as tears sprang to my eyes.  I cautiously approached the bed, barely breathing myself. I bent close over his face, trying to discern any sign of life.  My face was mere inches from his, when suddenly his eyes sprang open. He reached up, grabbed my face and planted a big kiss on my forehead.  “Boo! I gotcha!” he cried.  I almost had a heart attack!

 I was far too relieved to be angry, so instead I collapsed onto my knees beside the bed, laid my head on his chest and laughed with him. As I knelt there, listening to the familiar comforting sound of his beating heart, he stroked my hair and babbled words I didn’t understand.  This is the nature of the thief that is Alzheimers.

 Then a miracle of sorts happened. Daddy reached a moment of lucidity where his babbling suddenly became intelligible and I heard him say “We had a lot of fun didn’t we little girl? You’re a good daughter, you know that? And you’re a good driver I don’t care what your momma says.”  Then, for the last time in my life, I heard the sweetest voice in the world say “I love you.” Another soft kiss on my forehead and the spell was broken. 

 And that was the most precious gift he ever gave me.

Not the words he spoke, but his love, constant and unyielding.  No matter what I might have done, how upset he might have been with me, he never gave me cause to question his love.  On the few occasions that he ever spanked me, he cried as much as I did.  Mother could yell, scream, curse, rage and even beat me, it only served to harden my stubborn resolve. But if daddy ever told me I disappointed him, I was reduced to repentant tears.  Nothing hurt me worse than the knowledge that I had done something to break his true and unwavering heart.

It’s been ten years now that he’s been gone.  I still miss him so much. There have been many occasions in those ten years when all I wanted was to climb onto his lap, rest my head against his chest and let the steady rhythm of his heart soothe my broken one.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been jarred from sleep by a nightmare and found myself screaming for him. Then one day I realized, as I had long before, that just because I couldn’t see him, or touch him, didn’t mean he had abandoned me. And on those nights when I can’t sleep, or am shaken with a nightmare, if I can quiet my mind enough, I can hear his voice deep in my heart.  “You’re ok little girl. It’s alright, I’m here.” 

Thank you Daddy.  Thank you for your gift of humor and light heartedness. Thank you for giving me your quiet strength and perseverance. Thank you for always being there for me. Thank you for teaching me to play basketball, to swim, to ride a bicycle, and the basics of automotive mechanics.  Thank you for eating every disgusting thing that I ever produced from my Easy Bake Oven like it was the most delicious thing you ever tasted, and gazing in awe at my artwork like it was drawn by Rembrandt himself. Thank you for cleaning my scraped and bruised knees and binding my wounds. Thank you for protecting me from scary thunder monsters and the shadows that played on my bedroom walls and in my dreams. But mostly, thank you for showing me what true love really is. Thank you for never giving up on mother, for always loving her, when most men would have left her – and me.  Thank you for never abandoning us.

We did have a lot of fun. You were the best dad a girl could ever have. And you’re a good driver no matter what mother says. I love you.  Happy Father’s Day.