Memories of Dad

There were times as a young man when I complained to myself

A memory of Dad…where do you start?  I have pictures in my mind.  First, of looking up at this tall, silent man.  Looking up in fear sometimes, in awe most of the time as he went about life.  He was strong, good, quiet, rarely angry with us.  I looked up when I read his scrapbooks, hook shots flying through the air, frozen forever as the ideal athlete.  Playing catch in the backyard or playing basketball while he watched, always the same.  You were the mount Everest of my childhood.

I have pictures of you with tools, hammering, sawing, sweating, up on ladders, on the roof, in the garage, in the yard.  You weren’t still very much.  I wanted to be like you. When I got married and got desperate enough, I got a job pulling nails and then driving them.  You gave me my first hammer.  I still have it, by the way.  I barely knew which end was which, but I always watched you as a boy, so I tried to draw on that and learned enough to do for myself and become a certified carpenter, which convinced me that preaching and air-conditioning was a pretty good way to go.  But still, you showed me how to use my hands.

Pictures of you at the store, day in, day out, working long days, all day, nearly every day, and never really griping about it.  How tired you must have been!  But, come the next day, up you got, out the door and on about your business.  It was a mystery until we all did our time on the McCrory’s Christmas chain-gang in the toy department. Then we wanted it to be a mystery again.  But I would watch you, handling things, helping people find what they wanted, setting up displays, really enjoying it, to tell you the truth.

I have pictures in my mind of you at my wedding, at my ordination, reading my charge, coming to see us.  You stood around at the edge of all the noise and stories and excitement and grinned, taking it in, feeling no need to say much, but delight shining from your eyes.  My girls adore you for your sweetness and gentle spirit.

Oh, and what would I do without those images of you sitting in the bedroom in the evening, by yourself, plucking that black Sears Silvertone electric guitar, singing, “I Want to Go Home” and Hank Williams.  You gave me bluegrass and my first guitar and the love of music.  Mother gave me method and lessons, but I have you to thank for playing by ear and the instinct for improvising.  The joy of your retirement years has been sharing music together, rediscovering the music you knew as a young man.  How I wish Uncle Paul were still here when I could really enjoy it!

Hear Gary’s song, “Daddy Never Said” from his permanent world of pretend album [clilck here to listen] 

And I remember some pretty short but wise proverbs you gave me.  “We’ll be there when we get there.”  “People do what they have to do.”  Lots of stories.  And as far as jokes, some of the worst groaners I’ve ever heard.  Corny, but we told them to our kids anyway.

There were times as a young man when I complained to myself that you were so busy and I wished I could have had more time with you.  But now I look back and see that my life is full of images you gave me.  Work, family, music, faith.  Plenty of good things for life.  And I realize what a big, cool shadow you cast over my life in the heat of growing up.  You were always there to provide for us, show us, and delight in us.  I am grateful and I love you.