Honoring Our Fathers

My father is buried in a country cemetery in Marion County, Florida. My mother and sister, my father’s kin are there too. There is a memorial stone in honor of loved ones who chose cremation. It bears the names of my brother, my husband, two of my three daughters; my name awaits a date. Sunlight filters softly through moss-draped oaks, and splashes across the granite tombstones. It is peaceful there. I think about the times that were and the times that might have been.

My father — I always called him Daddy — was a hunter. And my early childhood memories include walking with him in the woods as he hunted animals I didn’t want him to kill. So I made noises to scare away whatever animal that might find its way into his gunsight. I loved being in the woods with him. I hated the sound of his gun.

Once he gave me a deerskin rug. On cold mornings, it was warm and soft against my feet, but I was saddened to think that the rug was once a deer that ran free and wild in tranquil woods. I know that the meat of the deer and rabbits and birds that my father killed was a necessity for our family. But I could no longer go with Daddy when he hunted. It was sort of a mutual understanding.

Times were tough in my growing up years. We were in the Great Depression. Jobs were scarce. Pay for the jobs available was low. Yet, Mother and Daddy always made sure I had school lunch money — 15 cents a day back then. They often left for work before daylight and usually didn’t get home until after dark.

Daddy was a proud man. Except for showing his anger at times, he kept his feelings to himself. His anger was such that most everyone went to great lengths not to provoke him. He seemed cold and distant. I remember one day in particular when the car wouldn’t start and he took the tire iron and smashed all the car windows. It was scary. I imagine he felt more anger at himself when he discovered that the car had run out of gas.

I seldom tested my father. I was afraid of him although physical discipline was rare. And since he was a man of few words, he wasn’t verbally abusive either. I felt safe with him and Mother. I didn’t think anyone would dare hurt me or my brother.

There were times when Daddy surprised me. Sometimes, for no reason at all, he would bring home a watermelon “just for me.” Because of an exceptionally good report card, he once gave me a beautiful, pearl-colored pen and pencil set. When he was drafted into the Army and was in basic training, he sent me a Sonja Henie doll, complete with figure-skating costume and ice skates.

He gave me the best advice I ever received. “Always learn all you can,” he said. “It’ll come in handy some day.”

In the early 1940s, Daddy, who didn’t like to work for others, went into the pulp-wooding business. He had a couple of log trucks and crews that were kept pretty busy. Then there was Pearl Harbor that put us in World War II. He tried to enlist in the Army, but was turned down because of his age and his two children. Later, it didn’t matter that he had children. He was drafted.

Daddy got into the war just in time to go through the Battle of the Bulge. His expert marksmanship served him well. Although he was wounded several times, his wounds didn’t stop him from being part of the Occupation Forces that stayed in Germany after the war ended. He came home with a Bronze star, Purple Heart and other medals. I still have his sharp-shooter medal.

He was very strict. Because I couldn’t hang out with friends, I started working after school when I was (almost) 14. Since I was working, my mother convinced him to allow me to wear some makeup. My dad had set 16 as the age for wearing makeup and limited dating. He allowed some makeup, but didn’t budge on the dating.

And if I said he wasn’t fair, he told me as long as I remained under his roof, I would do things his way. I couldn’t wait to graduate from high school and turn 18. I didn’t want to live in his house under his rules. I wanted to make my own rules.

So, I joined the Army. Well, at least I wasn’t living under Daddy’s rules anymore and when I was off duty there was no one to tell me what to do. And the Army offered new opportunities. I was trained as a cryptographic technician, stationed at the Pentagon, and felt pride in serving my country.

I met my husband while I was in the Army. Although I opted for discharge, he had several years left to serve in the Air Force, so we were stationed at bases in several different states. After my husband got his discharge from the Air Force, we first lived in Florida, then in his home state of Kansas.

When I brought my first-born daughter to visit Mother and Daddy, I was pleased to see Daddy bounce her on his knee. It was the same with the two girls that followed. He would hold my daughters, listen to them sing their little songs, recite their just-learned poems and watch them perform their “plays.” He smiled at them and laughed with them. “Why,” I thought, “didn’t I know this side of you?”

We were living in Kansas when I got the call that Mother had pancreatic cancer. She had six months to live we were told. We rushed home. When I went into Mother’s hospital room, I saw a side of Daddy I had never known. He was at Mother’s bedside and he was crying. “He does care,” I thought.

He was at her side as she went through several hospital stays and a major operation. He prepared meals. He watched over her. Mother proved the doctors wrong. She didn’t die in six months. It was Daddy who died. In making sure he cared for Mother, he neglected his own health. He was felled by a stroke and never regained consciousness. In 1964 he died on Sept. 14. It was my middle daughter’s birthday.

Mother lived until 1997 and died of pancreatic cancer, the same disease she was diagnosed with in the early 1960s.

Daddy wasn’t a church-going man and he couldn’t abide “hypocrites.” But he had high regard for those he felt “lived the life they preached.” I wish I knew more about what he believed in, what he thought and why he thought it.

When I think of Daddy, I think of what might have been — If Daddy had been able to show the love I now know he must have felt; if our family had been a more open and loving family.

If. If. If. The futility of if. Times were different then. The Great Depression was a time of parents struggling to survive — to feed and shelter their family.

And so, when I think of Daddy, I think, “Thanks, Daddy, for your advice to always be willing to learn. I’m still learning.”