A Tribute to My Father

This is maybe not the best thing I’ve ever written. It’s just an honest look at the man who was my father. 

My Daddy died when I was 18 years old, which at this point, was a long time ago.

I didn’t think I’d be able to go on without him at the time. I’d never suffered such a devastating loss. I was just a kid. Daddy’s Little Girl.

I remember the overwhelming pain in my head and throwing myself face down on the floor. I begged God to take me instead and bring my Daddy back — I begged for any and everything instead of the current reality. I couldn’t imagine living my life without my Daddy.

He was the biggest thing in my life — the most important. He was the glue that held me together when I felt like falling apart. He was that and more, so much more!

We were close. Close how a Daddy and his only daughter should be. I felt safe and protected in his cocoon. I felt wanted and loved. I was valued and important.

Daddy sometimes went on trips for work, and when he came back, he always had a little something for me. He’d also have knowledge of the area’s history and what they liked to eat, and he shared that with me too.

I treasured the special gifts he gave me. I still have the fishing hat and completely regret not holding onto the beautiful yellow off-the-shoulder sundress he brought me. He said yellow was my color. I’ve never doubted him. I think I look good in yellow too!

We went to church every time the doors were open. Daddy was a deacon, the Sunday School superintendent, and the song leader. He did all of this at the same time — it’s easy to see why I’m an overachiever. Or an over-tryer, anyway.

After church, Daddy would take my hand and I swear he would take me around to every old woman who showed up that day, so he could show me off. He was proud of me. Proud because I was his child, not because I’d done anything to earn it.

He was a good Daddy.

He egged me on and was my biggest cheerleader.

Once, at a bicentennial celebration at church (that Daddy put together), he strongly encouraged me to climb the greased pole and catch the greased pig.

I live my life still in the state of being an “almost” achiever.

Truth be told, I was pretty scared of that pig. We didn’t have a farm and I didn’t know what they could do. I didn’t want to find out, either.

One of Daddy’s favorite things was take me to a recently flooded road and threaten to drive into the water. He expected I would be terrified, but he got a big kick out of it. Me, not so much. He’d take off and drive right through, knowing the whole time it was safe, but I didn’t know, and I’d squeal like that greased pig until we drove out again.

But I wasn’t really as scared as I made out like I was. After all, I was with my Daddy.

There wasn’t any kind of meat I can think of that my Daddy didn’t trick me into eating.

That’s not necessarily a good thing, but I do know for sure what to avoid.

Daddy was never afraid to try new things, but I liked what I already knew I liked and very little else. Besides, the very idea of nutria rat is unappealing at best, repulsive if we’re honest.

Mama tells me that even when they went shopping in their early years, Daddy was always loading things into the cart that no one else would ever dream of eating — like elephant in a jar or something equally disgusting.

After Daddy was killed, a lot of people came up to me, people of every shape, size, and color, and handed me money. They’d say things like, “My family was out of food and your Daddy bought us groceries,” or “I wanna give this to you because your Daddy bought me tires when mine had wires poking through.”

Daddy presented to the world much like most men did in his time, as a prejudiced man, but he wasn’t that at all. It seems as if culture dictates most of what a man or woman will say, but not what’s in their heart. Daddy spoke the language of his ancestors, but he lived a life contrary to that. He was a good man — a real good man. Daddy loved and helped everyone he could. He was well-loved by many. Most of all, me.

I worked for my Daddy once I turned 18. He let me drive his winch truck every once in a while. I wasn’t a champion. Daddy fixed pumping units in the oil field. He’d take me around and show me the ins and outs of this or that and he also let me drive that truck when he had to know I was gonna put it in the ditch.

I remember the exact second it happened too. I hit a huge pothole, right before the old bridge, and it just lifted up in midair and bounced right on in the ditch. Daddy said, “That’s happened to me before,” and we just went on with life.

Before that, when I was learning to drive, I guess Daddy felt like one lesson was enough. Back in the day, we drove standard. Kids today don’t even know what that is.

Anyway, one lesson was dang sure not enough for me. When I asked Daddy to take me again, he just tossed me the keys. Now that I know what I know from working for the OMV, he probably just didn’t feel like he’d survive another jaunt in the truck with me!

It’s not the easiest thing in the world to teach yourself how to drive a standard automobile, but I did it. Oh, there were a lot of mishaps along the way, but Daddy had given me the basic knowledge, and I just went with it. I rolled down several hills backwards. Even when I thought I was showing good sense and managed to turn the truck around, it didn’t always turn out that great. I landed in a couple of ditches and can remember the horror of some guy having to push me out.

My greatest moment of learning to drive happened in our own driveway. I was driving the red Ford Courier — the same vehicle Daddy lost his life in later. I backed it right over the blue Ford Courier. That one had a welding machine mounted on the bed. Well, the red one got stuck on the blue one. I couldn’t pull forward or back up.

A few minutes passed of me going all hot and cold with fear and loathing (not sure why, I’d never even gotten a spanking) and Daddy finally saunters out of the house. He came over and stood by my window without saying a word.

I’m my Daddy’s daughter, so I didn’t speak either.

I just got out of the truck.

Daddy got in the truck, got it unstuck, then got out again and walked back into the house.

I got back in and drove off. We didn’t say a word then and never talked about it later. He didn’t yell at me or try to keep me from going. He just took care of the problem and let me try again. That was my Daddy.

I’ll never forget the loose step on the front porch, and how every time Daddy would come home his foot hit it. After he died, it was heartbreaking not to hear that sound. I hear it in my dreams still.

Not sure how he got the idea, but somehow Daddy thought that I would be a good housekeeper and cook. He pretty much found out I made a mean taco salad but nothing else! And when it came to the dishes, I let them sit long enough to get moldy and then I pitched them out the back door. One day Daddy asked where all our dishes were, and I pretended not to know, but of course it didn’t take him long to find them.

Again, he didn’t say anything. Just gathered them all up and put them back on the counter. I went ahead and washed them then, because I knew my luck would eventually run out if I didn’t.

I have a million Daddy stories, and I only knew him 18 years. Like how he would grab my guitar and strum a few cords and say, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash!”

And when he would sit in front of the TV and watch Pink Panther movies over and over, laughing so hard that his face turned beet red and tears streamed down. I would watch him, laughing at him so hard but also afraid he was going to have a heart attack from hilarity. Of course, he never did.

My Daddy was a beautiful person, and smart too. He would always challenge me to ask him any question out of the dictionary or encyclopedia to see if he could answer it. I just knew I could beat him, so I’d pick the most obscure fact or strange word, and Daddy would come back with the definition or explanation word for word. I never won that game of wits. I guess he had a photographic memory.

Of all the things in my life that I regret, it’s mostly that I didn’t provide to my children the kind of father I had. I should’ve chosen more wisely. I should have done better. Maybe they would have gotten a Daddy who made a great Santa Claus for the town, or one with eyes as blue as the sky, or one who swayed from side to side as he led the singing at church — unable to carry a tune in a bucket!

He couldn’t sing but he was a born leader, and I didn’t pick that kind of man to father my children. Maybe it was the trauma of losing him at a young age or just ordinary ignorance, but I wish I could’ve done that for my babies. I needed to find someone full of integrity and dreams, someone with gentle hands and a gentle voice, someone with the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen on a man. I should’ve found someone to teach them right from wrong and call them crazy nicknames, like Boochie for Chris and Sion for me (pronounced See-on). Daddy was a man who didn’t hurt children, didn’t hit them with two by fours, didn’t take what wasn’t his to take.

My Daddy always had a joke ready, and he was a writer and a builder of games. He’d sit down with us and let us read him a story even before we could read, and he was proud of us, more proud than you can imagine.

As a footnote to this story, I will tell you something that’s true whether you believe it or not.

After Daddy died, many people saw him pass over that old bridge in his red Ford Courier on his way to work, right there where I jumped the winch truck into the ditch. I saw him several times myself, and my friend SeLisa and I turned around to follow him one day. We could still see him when I turned around, but then he was gone, and no one ever saw him again.

That’s a little bit of the story of my Daddy. I miss him still. I still listen for his foot hitting that front step. I still remember the kindness and gentleness that was him.

And my hope is that there’s enough of him in me that my kids knew him anyway.

I hope he passed down his pride and integrity and most of all his overwhelming love. There was never a time in my life that I didn’t trust and love my Daddy, even when he was passing through the flood waters. And I think that’s as great of a picture of a Daddy as any I’ve ever seen.