There are dozens of pictures on shelves, bureaus, night tables and hanging on walls around my house. A few of them are pictures of my dad. Since he died before my son was born (two days prior—31 years ago), I’ve always tried to make sure he was a presence even in his absence. I’ve told my son many stories of the grandfather he never knew, pointing out characteristics they have in common (musically talented, a people person), as well as all the experiences my dad couldn’t wait to share with him (especially, fishing).

One of the funniest memories I have of my dad is from my 16th birthday. I had a recital that day and during my pas de deux, when my partner lifted me above his head, my father screamed, “Don’t you drop my baby.” I imagine I was embarrassed although I don’t remember anything except hearing his voice, people laughing in response, and hoping the young man took heed of the warning.

I don’t’ suspect he meant to be funny, but if he did, that’s another characteristic they share: humor. My son loves to make people laugh.

My dad is and always has been a lover of puns. So much so, in fact, that both my and my younger brother's early elementary school teachers would rave to our mom during parent-teacher conferences about our ability to comprehend and even take part in wordplay. My mom would just shrug her shoulders, unimpressed, and say, "Oh, that's just because of their dad."

This passion of his permeated my young life in a way that I didn't realize until I was an adult. There were the everyday puns that just happened spontaneously, of course. But often, he would go out of his way to work one into a conversation.

My mom strongly believed in the importance of reading to us when we were young, and Dad begrudgingly would when we asked. But as kids do, we would ask for the same story again and again. To keep himself from getting too bored, he occasionally offered to tell us a story that he made up on the spot.

I wish I could remember all of them because I know there were several, but the one that sticks in my brain was about a little o. This little o was sad because he was all by himself. He didn't have a family or friends. Dad told a lengthy tale of the little o's journey to find others like him - the sights he saw, the people he met along the way.

Finally, the little o found others like him - a big group of Os who gladly accepted him. The little o was elated! Thrilled! He was finally happy. He was . . . a cheery o.

My dad may not be a reader or enjoy stories the way I do, but I can honestly say that I owe a lot of my creativity to him.

I remember the look on his face.

I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the look that crossed my father’s face on a Saturday during an eventful afternoon in August of 1967.

A year prior, my father had packed his bags and left home unexpectedly, giving no forwarding address. My mother, at the initial onset, understandably had been horrified. How would she manage? She had no formal education, no self-sustaining type of employment, but she had two children, aged fourteen and eight, for which she must provide food, clothing, and a house. Fear became a very real, palpable force that invaded our tiny house on Canterbury Street that winter. The meager forty dollars my father would infrequently send my mother (through a local attorney, all the better to ensure his continued privacy) managed to pay only the house note. Still, my mother, struggling, alone, and afraid, became a substitute teacher and managed to earn enough income to put food on the table, pay the house note, and buy fabric with which to sew clothes for us. Needless to say, being the younger of two sisters, I wore a lot of hand me downs. The best thing I remember about the year that followed my father’s departure, however, was that we were able to eat all the spaghetti we wanted. My father disliked spaghetti, so when he’d been home, my mother never cooked it. With his absence, we ate spaghetti at least once – if not more – a week. To this day, it remains one of my favorite meals.

I apologize for I have digressed from my opening sentence. I felt a need, however, to elaborate on the premise provided and offer a bit of background before I continued. I promise to get to just why I remember the look on my father’s face more than I remember any other particular thing.

It was a year after he’d left home that my father returned. Being only nine by then, I was delighted and hopeful with his arrival. Not so much my mom, and certainly not my sister, who was determined to never, ever forgive the man who dared to call himself ‘father’. Of course, my father had returned expecting a glorious reunion that included moving back into our home. My mother, much to her credit had grown wiser – and so much stronger – than at first. Much to my father’s chagrin and increased anger, she put a halt to his moving back into the house. Still, he continued to visit, both to see his children and to bully my mother into changing her mind.

It goes without saying, and even my sister would tell you it was so: I was my father’s favorite. I was the child he often, especially when drunk, called his “eyeballs”. I suppose that’s country talk for ‘the apple of my eye’. I’m not really sure, but speculation has led to such a deduction over the years.

We lived about forty-five minutes away from the Atlantic Ocean, so visiting the beach was a common occurrence, especially in summer months. This particular Saturday, my newly returned father had indicated he would pick me up and we could go to the beach. I was ecstatic. I remember waiting and watching for his car as I played outdoors with friends, my swimsuit worn beneath my shorts and my beach towel by the front door. I was more than ready.

To the best of my memory, it was well past four o’clock once my father finally pulled in the driveway. We were all outside – my mother, my sister, and I. Extremely excited, I ran to hug him as he got out of the car. Being nine years of age, I should have recognized the telltale signs but maybe I was too excited. My mother, on the other hand, long having been subjected to my father’s use of alcohol, must have seen (and smelt) its effects immediately.

A detailed conversation between my parents ensued and escalated quickly into an argument. My mother forbade my father from taking me with him. I don’t remember her citing the alcohol as the main concern, though I know it was. I think she was probably too frightened by his proneness to anger, and understandably so. It was also, unfortunately, a very different time (in the 60’s) when people drank everywhere: at work and home, on the streets, in their cars, and in the local bars. My mother’s main argument was that it was too late to go to the beach. There would be no reason for such a visit since it would be dark by the time we arrived. Whatever her real reason for arguing, she stuck her heels in and refused to let me go, and I am left to wonder if she, in fact, saved my life.

My father’s alcohol induced rage grew with the repeated denials to give him what he wanted: me. In his rising anger, he lunged at my mother, striking a blow so hard across her face she fell backwards, landing on the ground just underneath an oak tree in the front yard. Her right shoe, as a result of the force, flew across the leave littered ground. In horror, I saw my mother lying on the ground, struggling to stand, and my sister, crying where she stood on the front porch. Without another thought, I picked up the displaced shoe and flung it as hard as I could at my father, striking him dead center in his chest, my young face contorted in anger. He immediately stopped mid-sentence and mid-stride where he stood. He stared at me for what felt like centuries. I don’t remember what I said to him, but in fierce defiance, I stood my ground and yelled something at him. I swear to this day, if I’d have had more shoes, I would have thrown them all at him no matter the outcome.

Yes, I remember the look that crossed my father's face that day oh so well. His favored “eyeballs” had seen him in his truest form and in defense, had managed to kick his ass, at least as much as a nine-year old child armed with a single shoe could. It was an eye-opening moment for the both of us; a reckoning of newly imposed adulthood for a mere child and regret and shameful awareness for a sad, disillusioned man with a horrible disease.

I am proud to say that my mother chose to deny my father's return home and eventually divorced him. I know the fear she must have had in making such a profound, revolutionary choice, especially during that day and time. There were many instances when we didn’t have much food or couldn’t afford to do things, but because of the decision she made, I have always been amazingly proud of her persistence, strength, and growth in the face of such adversity.

This may not be your average Father’s Day recollection, but I fear the prompt given initiated the memory that unfolded herein. I pray others are more fortunate in their accounts of wonderful, wise, kind, and supportive dads. As for me, I am thankful instead for lessons learned, both in childhood and adulthood, as well as a mother who filled in for a father when needed and the amazing men who helped me much like a father would through the years.

“I am still learning.” Michelangelo

From early history

it's recorded

as

Abba

Baba

Dada

Papa

Tata

Vati

yet

we don't

call him Daddy

it's an agreement

we have patented

cross continental

early baby babble

one syllable or two

evocation, of responsibility

that Dad

holds, no meaning,

or the wrong meaning

or too much meaning

meaning...

that spirit

of meaning

there is for us

no Dad, Daddy or Dada

it has to be

something else

in title

which is why

if you are asking

about Dad

we scratch our heads

and even he is looking

around...

06.16.2024

Dad... one thing you remember challenge @KarenKitchel

When I was young he would yell me at a lot, for a lot of reasons. I would cry, and he would yell more. I would say something that any stupid kid would say without thinking, and he would yell instead of calmly correcting me.

I had to have been about eight so. For some damn reason, he was making me do a lot of cleaning (even though I didn't cause the mess, but most of it was my older brother). I was unhappy, so I was frowning. He raised his voice and said "Smile."

There were tears is my eyes but if I let them spill he would have yelled at me for that. He repeated "Smile!" So I did so with watery eyes.

He doesn't yell at me much anymore now that I'm older, because I know what to avoid, how to diffuse it, or I've become so apathetic that it becomes a non-issue between us.

I don't cry much anymore, but I can't do it in front of people, even close friends and never family. I don't smile much either.

"What do you mean you're bisexual?" Dad says, his lips twisting.

"Well, I like men and wome-"

He waves his hand on the air impatiently.

"I know what it means! I'm not stupid."

I shrug and blow out a breath.

"I've never hidden it," I say.

He blinks, looks to Mum and back to me again. I drop my gaze as silence swells around us like an over filled balloon.

"Are you angry?" I ask.

Dad tuts and throws his napkin on the table.

"Of course I am. You're 33 now and I could have spent all this time talking about hot women with you!"

DD