Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been 92. Years ago, we had a story thread that Dad was born the year before his stated birth year on his birth certificate. So he would joke, and I can hear his voice in my mind, “I may be 93.” Happy Birthday, Dad!
In the picture, Dad is standing by a tree planted, most probably at the Champion Paper Employee Park, where we lived for six years. It was next to NASA and Timber Cove, where many astronauts lived. That was a great experience.
His mannerisms hit home this morning. The way he shrugged his shoulders and smirked was uniquely him. His late-in-life hunched-over shuffle is something I feel daily. I find myself walking across the floor thinking, and I’m walking like Dad! Wait! I’m not that old! Stop it! In this school picture? Where did his curly hair go? What power hair product did he have back in the 30’s that could have straightened his hair?
It was difficult having much of a conversation on the phone. Dad did not enjoy conversing that way. His hearing issues were probably to blame, but he grew up on a farm in the ’30s and ’40s; I can’t imagine them having much use for a phone back then! I wish I had thought to ask him about that tidbit of thought.
Dad could work hard! Isn’t that what sweat shows us? I remember his mom preparing breakfast in the morning. You know, the time before it gets sweltering. With no A/C, you get used to living with the temperature instead of creating a moderate zone. Before she was done, she would have sweated halfway down her body.
Dad took that from her, and I took that from him.
Yep. I come from a genetic disposition to sweat!
That’s why I like cold weather! I hate to sweat!
That’s what I think of his job at Champion Paper Company. Sweat. The whole place smelled like sweat! Of course, its smell permeated Dad’s clothes and his truck. If I borrowed his truck for a date, I would open the doors and hose out the inside! That ’68 Dodge Pickup may have been the first new truck he ever bought! But it took to a water hose well!
I remember when we were with him at work, maybe just running up to the office for something, and he would drive through their car wash. Just sprinkler nozzles to wash off the grime of what the company produced…of course, we got to sit in the back of the truck and enjoy the spray!
It’s hard to describe what most have never experienced.
Most of my memories are snatches and whisps of recall. There’s something about sitting with someone in the bleachers watching the Colt .45s (pre-Astro’s days) or taking a road trip, and suddenly Dad breaks out into a song! Anywhere. Everywhere! You never knew if it would be something from Eddy Arnold or a hymn from church! Unlike me, he could always hit the right note and be on the key. It made me wonder if any of his siblings had the same talent. I may never know.
Dad loved to tell a good story. Simple stories. Quickly shared, and then a laugh. I remember many stories while playing Texas 42 (dominoes) or Crying Rummy.
Dad was opening up a view into a slice of his life.
Most of his stories included a funny point,
but his ability to stand at his parent’s grave, stoic, quiet,
and even contemplative is also a picture of me.
There’s so much I will never know. My time learning from him is gone. He never wrote a book or left treasure notes for us to find later on. Like Dad, I’m not much on phone time with most. There are a few far-off friends I take the time to use that crazy device. As with Dad, my hearing leaves me guessing what others are saying. Say something to me at church while the music’s playing. I will only guess what you are sharing—the same thing with the background blare of the radio when we are driving somewhere.
It’s time to take a picture of Emma’s Tree
and show my one and only granddaughter how much it’s grown.
Blame the Pandemic. Go ahead.
She can not yet see what we planted about seven years ago.
She will be so surprised! It’s tall!
Dad was dad. I’m me. If I’ve learned anything from his passing, I must be better at sharing. It’s time to finish the rough draft and send some messages outward. Life is a constant learning experience, and I’m still willing to learn.
Dad. I wish we had spent more time talking. Love you. Miss you.