Dad tickled me until I couldn’t breathe. When I went to the garage to gather clothes from the dryer, he’d hide behind the back door, jump out, and scare me. He teased me and called me Lenny Pee instead of Penny Lee. Maybe you’re thinking he was mean. Not me.
All the Saturday afternoons at the neighborhood park, cherry snow cones, visits to the Farmer John stockyards, and times Dad fretted at the foot of my sickbed confirmed that he loved me.
My dad spouted words of wisdom of his own, more colorful than Mom’s. He taught me to be tough and make the best of it when I didn’t latch onto what I wanted. “People in hell want ice water,” he’d say. When I’d stand between him and the television screen, he’d utter, “The meat of the burro is not transparent.” Why couldn’t he say, “You make a better door than a window” like other parents?
“If you’re going to do something, go for it,” he’d remark whenever I’d do something slovenly. “No half-assed stuff.” With the breadth of my derriere, he need not worry about that.
Dad might have had a chance at normal had he not lived in such close proximity to Mom’s family. In the autumn of my seventh year, when he tossed me a red plastic shovel and proclaimed, “Let’s dig a swimming pool,” I knew he’d succumbed. We dug in Mom’s soon-to-be-forgotten rose garden with visions of a blue lagoon splashing in our heads. Grandpa, the local builder, attached a scoop shovel to his old Jeep. My uncles helped, too. To this day, I love to swim.
On this special tribute day for fathers, I am reminded of my dad’s love of people and life. My parents were never wealthy in goods. They lived in the same 1100 square foot home with one bath their whole marriage. (But our pool was one of the most visited attractions around.) He never passed a stranded motorist without stopping to help someone less fortunate. And many times, he’d come home late covered in soot after stopping to help fight a fire.
When mom broke her hip and couldn’t yet stand or climb into a tub, he took her outside on a portable commode, hooked the hose onto the laundry tub faucet in the garage and sprayed her off.
He never paid for what he could do himself. Mom had complained her iron didn’t heat up like it used to. “I’ll fix it,” Dad volunteered. The next time she used it, molten metal dripped down the glowing back of Mom’s antique iron. When the clock quit working, he tore it apart, then he assembled it back together. Seems like there was always one part left over. If Mom didn’t place it upside down, the hands wouldn’t move. I recall Dad messing with defective windshield wipers on the family car. Afterwards when Mom stepped on the accelerator, water squirted and the blades swished.
But he did have successes in between the mishaps. His biggest success was in how he lived his life.
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Perfect Tribute. Thanks!
I love your tribute…totally took me back to my youth and reminded me so much of my own father–who has passed away. It was a great way to reminisce about my dad. Thanks for sharing!!!