A Memory of My Daddy

From my book, "A Collection of Days", this chapter is appropriate for Father's Day as I remember my father.

Two Phone Calls

It was a hot, summer, Florida evening. Mama, Daddy, and I had finished supper and were clearing up the dishes when the phone rang. It was my roommate from Mount Union College, Jackie. She was calling to tell me that she was in Fort Lauderdale visiting her grandmother, and would love it if I could drive over to spend a couple of days with her. Of course, I was delighted with the prospect of a little adventure on my own- driving my baby blue ’64 Cutlass across the state to have some beach time with my good friend. I saw no reason why I couldn’t go, but when I asked permission, Daddy stolidly said no. After I hung up the phone, I lashed into Daddy about all the reasons why I should be able to make this trip, but he had as many reasons why I could not go. Our argument culminated with my screaming at him, running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and flopping onto my bed in angry tears.

I lay there crying, feeling sorry for myself, and otherwise despising my father for being such a stick in the mud. I felt like I was an adult, and he was treating me like a child. It wasn’t fair, and I was angry and hurt.

While I was in the midst of my temper tantrum, the phone rang again. Several minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Thinking the phone call was for me, and that Mama was on the other side of the door, I sobbingly responded, “Come in.” To my surprise, it was Daddy who walked over to my bed and sat down. Tears were streaming down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen my father cry, and I knew that something terrible had happened as my stomach turned a flip in anticipation of what I was about to hear. Daddy wrapped his arms around me and told me that my cousin, Madeline, who was nine months pregnant, had died suddenly. What about the baby? was the question that popped out of my mouth first. The baby, a little boy, was dead, too. My tears instantly turned from tears of a selfish teenager to those of grief, as the news sunk in deeper and deeper. Daddy didn’t know the details, only that she was gone. As I cried in my daddy’s arms, and felt his strong arms around me, I felt the love he had for me, and his thankfulness that I was alive and healthy. He was only looking out for my safety and well-being by prohibiting me from driving across Florida by myself, and maybe being a little selfish himself in an attempt to protect me from some unknown harm lurking out there on the Florida highways.

I have often thought back to that night. My emotions ran the gamut within about an hour’s time, and changed me forever. I never felt closer to my dad than I did that night, within a moment’s passing after thinking terrible and hateful thoughts about him. I never saw him shed tears again the way he did that night, and we never spoke again of that time we shared, wrapped in each other’s arms on the edge of my bed. We would continue to have our arguments and disagreements until the day he died, but we had a deep understanding of one another, which brought a more intimate daughter-father relationship, still alive even years after his death.