Tuesday, January 03, 2017

A bit about Dad



My father carried gratefulness around like a lucky coin. Maybe the seed was planted when he was adopted as a baby, but he was profoundly thankful for his family. He would have been lost without my mother and told her so in vibrant love letters that she continues to treasure. But he appreciated the smaller, sillier things, too, like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches, having someone else (anyone else) mow his lawn, chocolate cake with caramel icing, and every episode of the Muppets.


He delighted in Judy Garland’s voice, a good vodka martini, heavy on the olives, The Far Side comics, and hurrying out with me to the open garage whenever a rollicking thunderstorm paraded down the block. (To this day I can still be found sky gazing at even a hint of a rumble.) I grew up watching my father flex his senses. As he soaked up everyday pleasures, they accumulated over the years, burnishing him with the warm patina of a contented man.

But although he may have been satisfied with his life in general, he was by no means apathetic when it came to those around him. Dad held opinions on everything from when I should be allowed to shave my legs (yup) to the state of world affairs. One of his favorite places to share these opinions was at the kitchen table, most notably at breakfast on the weekends. After finishing off a plate heaped with (never enough) scrambled eggs, he would lean his hefty, 6’4” frame back into the squeaking roller chair, take a deep breath, prop his fingers into a pyramid, look out the window and say “Well, girls. ” This was our cue that a history lesson, current events summation, or just plain advice was coming.

Occasionally, Dad would pull the morning’s topic from one of the books he was reading. We’d hear about the wisdom of Churchill or the foresight of Lincoln. Civil War history was his literary passion, though, so you can imagine his delight when I came home in fifth grade and announced that I had to give a speech about the War Between the States. Thrilled, he outfitted me with an authentic Union cap, a real Confederate canteen, a tape of period songs, and an abundance of facts. I was not quite as thrilled.

A WWII Veteran, Dad was a member of the 82nd Airborne. Although he rarely spoke of his own experience, I think he gained a sense of honor from being a soldier, along with pride. Unwaveringly thankful to be an American, he often reminded me how lucky we were to live in a country where freedom was our birthright.

Words got as much care and feeding in our house as our collie, Mac. Books climbed the walls in our family room, tumbled off nightstands, and stretched out on tables. I vividly remember him telling me that I could go anywhere in the world or embark on any adventure when I became absorbed in the pages of a book. But perhaps the most valuable lesson my dad taught me was that words can comfort and connect. That written down, they carry great significance, most importantly, to those you love.

Shortly after his death, I found this dog-eared note folded in half in the pocket of his daily planner. Apparently he tucked it into each fresh notebook.

“Dear Daddy,
Thank you for taking me out in the rain.
Yours truly,
Carol Ann”