"It's My Daddy"

I wrote this several years ago as a Fathers Day gift to my Daddy. He died last month, but it felt wonderful to hear myself refer to him in the present tense. I need to keep his memory in the present tense forever.

“It’s My Daddy!”

That was the first sentenced I ever uttered. I think it was around eight months. I’m sure it is no surprise I was vocal early on. Obviously it’s no surprise how much I already adored my Daddy, even at such a tender age.   

My Daddy is big man with broad linebacker shoulders and upper arms that have problems in dress shirts. He’s also an engineer and so not the chattiest person in the world. He also mumbles-in a low voice.

My sister and I spent most of our growing up years trying to decipher his speech. My Mother could unfailingly understand and so became the family interpreter. This annoyed my father in the worst way. And, because he required translation, my father became known as “He” which also vexed him. 

“He” would say something at the dinner table. On cue my sister and I would turn to my mother and ask, what did “He” say?  This was almost always followed by a huff from “He”. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for my Mother we might never had understood a word he said.

Once at Thanksgiving he gave a long drawn out blessing. The family all nudged each other and giggled under our breaths because nobody had any clue what he was saying. After the droning mumble stopped, that’s how we all knew he was finished, I popped up. I had no trouble being heard or was ever short of words-I got that from mother.

So I said, “Daddy, no one understood a single word you said.”

Unfazed and in a surprisingly moderate and clear tone, reached for the rolls and said, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

I have NEVER lived that down. That was the last time I underestimated my Daddy.

When I was very little he worked shifts. Never being much of a sleeper myself I would wait, standing in my crib listening for the car in the driveway. Mother said as soon as I heard it I would start violently shaking the crib bars. (I’m sure there is a metaphor for my whole life in there somewhere but this is Daddy’s article, not mine.)

Anyway, Daddy would beeline to my nursery and swoop me up to, as mother relates, raucous giggles. I would demand to see the “tars” and out the back door we would go. 

He would show me all the constellations and the moon. I still take pictures of full moons and send them to daddy. He taught me to sing, “I See the Moon” also recorded in my very full baby book as the first song I ever sang. My sister swears she only has on page recorded in her baby book but that’s her problem. We don’t remember what my sister’s first song was. She was the second child.

He also made a point of watching for the first violet of spring. We always had a contest of sorts as to who could find one first. He usually won. Almost every book I owned as a kid has a violet pressed between the pages. Sometimes I win now and I mail them to him. He presses them in his bible.

As I got older he passed along his love of “The Tonight Show”.  That never sleeping thing of mine may just be his fault. I would beg to stay up and watch it with Daddy. Mother was a real stickler for bedtimes and she was obviously the one in charge and I was always told no.  So when she was reading in the living room Daddy would sneak me in the den and tell me to be still as we stretched out on the couch, me behind those huge shoulders, me peeking between his arms. 

Somehow I think my Mother knew. But it was glorious to think we were pulling something over on her. I have since learned that woman is psychic and even today when I’m a thousand miles away I know she knows stuff. I know she knows it’s four in the afternoon while I’m writing and about to pause to have a glass of wine—at four.

My Daddy was and is an adventurous soul.  I think he would have made a great explorer. He loved nature and he loved to fish and camp and travel.

Remember those old “Brady Bunch” episodes about the camping trips? Ours were never like that. They were better. We had the good fortune to live in Oklahoma City, the cultural capital of the universe, for a time. This put us four days from everywhere so the possibilities were endless, and so was Texas. 

Oh, how my sister and I hated Texas. Not the people, just the endless never ceasing straight highway accompanied by a scraggly fence. Swear to god that fence ran from one end of that state to the other. We would whine and pester our parents with the old proverbial, are we there yet?  Also followed by, are we out of Texas yet?

To which my Daddy would chant in a most taunting voice, “The sun is riz, the sun is set, and we are still in Texas yet.”

We hated that and he knew it. He also knew it would illicit screeches from two little girls in pigtails. The screeches seemed to bring a smile to his face.  Looking back it occurs to me Daddy had no trouble being understood when he wanted to.

We camped in every state west of the Mississippi. The Rockies were my favorite and I think Daddy’s too. We were southern kids so snow in June, or anytime, was an exciting novelty. When we camped in the spring or fall sometimes we got snow for real.  Oh that I could replicate the joy of waking to that winter wonderland!

But as in most things, one learns all is not always a marshmallow world, for Daddy was a tease and a merciless player of practical jokes.

Daddy would call me over pretending to have found something most interesting. I would come innocently skipping over to see what he had found- only to have him shake the overhead branch dislodging fifty tons of wet snow on my head. To add insult to injury he would snigger loudly, wheezing like pressure cooker about to explode. To this day my entire family gets tickled every time Daddy laughs. Even when we didn’t understand the joke (sometimes Mother refused to translate them) we still laughed because his laugh was so funny.

Of course this avalanche trick sent me wailing to tell my Mother who pretended to scold him through a not so well hidden smirk. In case you haven’t noticed I fell for this prank more than once. I’m still a sucker for my Daddy.

As my sister and I got older camping cramped our teenage lifestyles so my parents sold the camper. My Mother cried that day. I thought she was being silly. I have since learned better.

As it happens I saw less of daddy as I suffered through my teenage years, my fault not his. I didn’t fish with him much anymore. There is something about predawn starts that don’t seem so adventurous at 16. I didn’t play golf with him much anymore. The beach with my friends was more appealing.

Despite our callous neglect Daddy still spoiled his girls. We both got new cars before our 16^th birthdays. We learned to take him shopping with us because his solution to not being able to choose between two outfits was to buy them both. My Mother’s was if we couldn’t choose one we didn’t need either.

One thing Daddy and I did keep up was date night. I saw every war movie ever made in “Surround Sound”. I loved them! I also loved holding his hand through the whole movie. That was special. He always took me to dinner too-not some fast food place but a real restaurant with white table cloths and linen napkins. He always let me order an appetizer and desert and didn’t say my eyes were bigger than my stomach when I couldn’t finish my meal.

Not being the coolest kid on earth, truth be told I was a real nerd, I skipped my senior year and went straight to college. Daddy, concerned that I was so young on my own, insisted I attend an all girls’ school. I would have put up a fight but I was so glad to get out of high school I acquiesced. He and Mother drove me to college, about a five hour trip from home, and helped my roommate and I set up the room. Daddy kept hanging around and I admit I was ready for them to scoot. Mother sensed it was time to let the girls be girls and dragged him to the car. I remember hugging them both and not giving them a second thought as I headed to a dorm reception. I didn’t know for years Daddy cried all the way home. Mother had to drive.

Daddy has seen me through a wedding-a really big wedding with a live band and tents and all that goes with it. He was there at the birth of my first child, the one and only boy my daddy will ever have. He babysat for the new love of his life, my son, when my daughter was born.

He came and stayed with me when said daughter developed colic and screamed nonstop for six weeks. Daddy was the only who could make her stop. He would throw her over those huge shoulders and walk the neighborhood just to give me some peace.

Daddy saw me through a really nasty divorce. He made himself my children’s Daddy as well as their Papa. He welcomed a new man in my life and actually admitted he liked him. He and my son traveled to Alaska twice and drove once.

He fixes everything I break. But that is getting harder for him now. He was diagnosed with Lewy Body Parkinson’s disease about ten years ago. Daddy’s had a rough go of it. It won’t get better.

I don’t call him enough and lord knows I don’t visit enough. I stay on the road trying to get kids through college and make a living for myself. I’ve never taken my kids camping. Daddy has.

I am the strong woman today because my Daddy told me I could do anything and be anything I wanted to be. I am still trying to live up to his expectations and that is a good thing.

I see the moon,

The moon sees me.

Daddy hung the moon

And Daddy loves me.

Kicking Mr. Bucket

I keep getting emails for private jet rentals and Brazilian vacations. Hell, I haven’t finished paying off Christmas of 1994.

That Christmas I’m still paying off pretty much changed my life. It all started when Santa brought my now, improv actress daughter, a Mr. Bucket. The name in and of itself is a little frightening when you think of bucket connotations-“kick the bucket”, “bucket list”, “bucket head”-PPHHFT; it just has issues written all over it. I should have known.

Well this, “batteries not included” bucket game with googly eyes spins around and chases you while spitting out twelve ping pong balls. Oh, wait-I hear nervous laughter! You guys had one too didn’t you? Yeah, Milton Bradley screwed up a whole generation.

Apparently the purpose of the game is to scoop up the balls with a sand shovel and dump them in the bucket, vainly hoping they will remain. But Mr. Bucket just keeps spinning and spewing and popping those balls to kingdom come- faster than a jack rabbit on a date.

Milton Bradley should be footing the therapy bill for a whole generation of Mr. Bucket recipients. False expectations, failure to preform, fear of timed tasks, rigged systems, unrealistic goals-sound familiar? That’s just my opinion, no class action suits have been filed-yet.

So, Kenzie, that’s her name- y’all stop and say hey after reading this, tell her Mom sent you- had no tolerance for redundancy. Why wash a dish if you’ll use it again, etc.

Anyway-she must have been, maybe three, when she got it and I, like the naïve young mother I was, assumed this would be an excellent “self-centered” toy. Self-Centered toy was the 90’s catch phrase for, “It won’t require your mother to play with you.”

She, being the bright child she was, saw through this right off the bat. But, I encouraged just one game while I hid out in the linen closet and swilled a glass of wine out of a jelly jar. The jar still had some jelly and few toast crumbs from breakfast, but at that stage of motherhood one wasn’t too picky.

From my self-medicating seclusion, I heard her squealing, heard the bucket whirring, heard the pop, pop, pop of the balls, and then-nothing.

Let me tell you if you are a parent, there is nothing, I tell you nothing, as terrifying as silence when you have a toddler. Well, I heard nothing that is, until she yanked open the closet door-little brat had sniffed out my hidey hole. As my eyes adjusted I could see her silhouetted against the glow of fluorescent bathroom light, hair bow dangling by a few straggly hairs, pajama bottoms sagging from chasing the balls, head cocked to one side- and then she chirped.  

She chirped, she didn’t talk. At that age she sounded like a canary sucking helium.

“I win mama, I win!”

I thought to myself, well good for you, now go away I’m busy. But as all three year olds do in their zest to suck your life right outta your nose, she persisted.

“I win, mama, I win! Come see, come see!”

By this time I had gotten down to the crumbs and could no longer convince myself drinking crappy wine from a jelly jar with remnants of jelly and toast crumbs was analogous to crudités and cocktails.

I acquiesced.

She took me by the hand-it was sticky of course-my kids are grown and my entire house is still sticky, and lead me down the hall to her bathroom.

Positioning herself in front of the toilet she made a sweeping motion like Vanna White, still chirping, “I win!”

I looked into the toilet-nothing. I looked at Kenzie, her big, brown eyes beaming up at me in absolute pride at her accomplishment.

“What?” I said. “Why did you win?”

She narrowed her eyes with the absolute disgust only a child can muster when it occurs to them how stupid their parents really are.

“I WIN MAMA!” She shouted as we Americans tend to do in a foreign countries to improve the natives understanding of English.

I blinked.

She blew out through her little pursed, pink lips, her bangs poofing up on the hot updraft. She was clearly disgusted.

She put her hands on hips and chirped again, “I win!”

Slowly, through the lack of the sleep induced stupor of toddler raising and some quantity of crappy wine, things began to clear.

I spied Mr. Bucket lying askew in the corner by the tub where she had clearly kicked it.

“Kenzie,” I asked? “where are the balls?”

Suddenly, the heavens opened and Harold the Hark Angel burst into glorious song, lucidity was upon me!! She detected it in the sudden focus of my eyes.  Pride emanated from her tiny, tenacious being. She, she had beaten the system. She had destroyed the enemy. She controlled Mr. Bucket's destiny. She had brought him and his frenzied, popping balls to ruin. She was the ruler of the world! 

“Kenzie,” I asked bending down close to the rim, peering into the hole, “where are the balls?”

With a triumphal look one imagines adopted by Joan of Arc entering Orleans she chirped, “I fwush ‘em Mama, I fwush ‘em!”

“All of them?” I asked.

She nodded her cherubic head, bow still dangling.

“All twelve of them?”

Another nod.

Sold that house in three days I did. Erma Bombeck would totally understand the septic tank issues.

Rode by the neighborhood several years later-incognito of course. The house was for sale, again. I’m thinking to this day that house is like the Amityville Horror house- people move in, bad things happen-exorcists- I mean plumbers, are called, things are fine for a while, and then the demons return-all twelve of them.

I have checked before publication of this blog. The statute of limitations has expired.

Storage Units and Past Lives

Funny thing about emptying storage units, nothing looks like you exactly remember. It looks dingy, faded- ratty. The memories you have from each item-be it furniture, vase, photograph, or Christmas ornament don’t really match up.

I cleaned mine out over the last week and frankly I’m amazed I paid to have it stored for so many years. Circumstances change. Life changes. Jobs change. Suddenly you find yourself no longer needing or wanting all those precious antiques and teacups you’ve collected over the years. I realized I have a lot of teacups and teapots and brunch plates and, and, and. I have a silver tea service and two restaurant size chafing dishes. I have place settings for twelve and brunch plates for thirty. I live in a condo and have for the last ten years, but I’ve paid for the storage of these precious treasures “just in case” I ever needed or wanted them again.

I don’t need them. I don’t want them. Don’t get me wrong there are some things I missed-that certain set of rye whiskey glasses from the 1920’s, my Pappagalo rain coat from college, Grandmother’s cast iron skillets, all of which I have rescued and stuffed into the already bulging condo. All the other stuff I gave away or threw away and it felt good.

The process of sorting didn’t feel good. For an entire week I was forced to relive my life-all of it. Forced to stand in a dusty, hot, square cell and face my life all at once with no filters, praying there weren’t spiders in the boxes. There were spiders, but they were mostly mummified dried out husks of their scary, former selves-much like the items in the boxes.

I found my 4-H trophy from winning the state speech contest. It was plastic and the gold was peeling off. I found old prom pictures-what was up with the hair I will never know. Funny, I thought I looked so chic. Anyway, I found my high school scrap book-none of us look like that anymore. I know because I see them on Facebook. We are all on second and third marriages now and we look tired through the feigned smiles as we post with drinks in hand and sunsets in the background.

I found my album collection. Boy I was a nerd. I still am. My entire collection consisted of Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, Barbra Streisand, and vintage Frank Sinatra albums I found in a thrift shop. That’s something I probably shouldn’t even be telling.

The contents of the boxes were perplexing- a jumbled hodgepodge of my kid’s baby pictures and my grandmother’s silver service in a plastic bag. I can’t remember all those many years ago how they ended up in the same box. I guess it doesn’t matter since they belong to the same life.

I found the enormous, obligatory photos of my children on their first birthday. What we moms would have done without the Sears photography studio I don’t know. We had no trendy photo studios imitating Anne Geddes-over and over and over again. Nope, there was a little wooden chair, a creepy stuffed bear, and a washtub with a rubber ducky. That was it. I got the ginormous photo with a free frame since I ordered package D with 400 itty-bitty little photos I cut out and sent to distant relatives and friends in Christmas cards. The other 367 are still in my packing boxes.

I found church directory family portraits with bad hair, shoulder pads, cute kiddos, and ex-husband. Well, that was awkward. What does one do with these? You feel guilty if you ditch them, but who in the world wants to be reminded of miserable failures and years of hostility and angst. I threw them away. It was too much to think about.

My current and forever husband and I closed down two houses and a Key Largo condo over the years and just kept shoving stuff into the, “pits of hell” as I have come to refer to it. That was even more awkward. As we reused packing boxes and moved stuff from one place to the next it seemed we never scratched out the boxes’ previous contents or last name. What initially held “baby blankets” with one last name now held pots and pans with a different last name. Those boxes resembled an Ellis Island ledger.

I suppose it is fitting that all those names and all those belongings were packed up, jumbled together, seeking better times under new names, with new spellings, stacked one on top of each other as though we were passengers on ships headed to the America, and the detritus of our collective pasts became the great melting pot of our lives.