I Remember Daddy: A Memoir

Daddy was not an imposing figure. He would never win a Mr. Universe contest but he had inherited the look of the farming and logging physique that was common to the many uncles, brothers and cousins in our large extended family (now in the hundreds and multiplying nicely, thank you). He was very healthy. What a wondrous creation he was!

Daddy was not rich, but he never asked for or expected to receive anything from this great welfare state. We did not live in public housing or have food stamps or accept welfare payments. He believed in supporting his family. His formal education was minimal, ending in elementary school. Yet, he struggled to make a better life for his children; he always encouraged us to get the best education that we could, for a better education would mean a better life.

Daddy was a provider. He worked hard every day. As a little girl, I would see him from a distance as he returned home from a day of hard work and I would run to meet him to get my daily hugs; his eyes would light up and twinkle brightly as he picked me up off the ground ever so slightly - just high enough to make me feel that powerful support but not so high as to render me helpless. Occasionally, he had a little sweet treat in his pocket for me; a piece of hard candy or bubble gum was the norm.

Daddy was a communicator. Sometimes he would just sit and tell stories; he loved Uncle Remus and could spin tales of the South that were so funny and real (what does a kid know - I believed those things could happen). As I grew up, we would talk about a variety of different topics. I am not sure that these conversations met the societal standards for diction and grammar, but that did not matter to me; just the sounds of words and laughter were pure joy.

Daddy was a counselor. The one serious thing my Daddy discussed with me many times was self-sufficiency and how to be responsible for myself. He repeatedly stated that his grandest wish for me was that I did not have to 'scrub toilets' for a living. I was too young to understand this wish the first time I heard it, but he kept saying it and explaining it until it became a part of my being. 'Scrub toilets' covered myriad paths in life and set many goals, all of which I perceived as achievable because Daddy said I could do it. He poured his strengths and determinations into me.

Daddy was a refuge. His small talks gave me such a sense of direction and made me feel so powerful - I believed I could achieve. No one since and no one after him has ignited such inner strength and purpose. All children should have such a person in their lives. Unfortunately, my contemporaries rarely talked about their fathers. Many of them talked about their mothers. If you wanted to show true contempt for a peer, you muttered that phrase 'Yo' mamma'. There was no equivalent insult for fathers. Where were these fathers? Why were they relegated to the ranks of 'not worthy of conversation' by their children? Why are they relegated to the 'not worthy of insult' category? I am sure I fell into that same trap - no one wanted to hear about my Daddy or talk about their father. In spite of it all, I always felt the comfort and safety that a father gives.

Daddy was a cook. Occasionally, on Sunday mornings, Daddy would arise early and cook his special biscuits. His biscuits were the brown, crusty kind with soft insides that were 'open wide and bite' good old New Orleans cooking. As he assembled the ingredients and mixed the dough, he would whistle a little tune. The smell of the baking and the sound of his whistle awakened me and summoned me to the table.

Daddy was a teacher. He would take us to the Zoo and chat endlessly as we walked around. No matter what we asked, he never made us feel that our question was stupid or not related to the moment. I don't know anything about the quality of the conversations, but that didn't matter. I was walking and talking with my Daddy.

Daddy was a friend. He found time to spend with his family but he did not give up the joys of having his own friends. On weekends, he served as barber for friends. He also loved to go fishing (yes, the six-pack was standard fishing gear) with the guys. Saturday night was a night out (and sometimes he paid the price on Sundays). Friendship demanded these small sacrifices, after all.

Daddy was a spiritual being. I don't remember Daddy ever attending a church, except for weddings and funerals. He always said that he could pray whenever he wanted to do so without needing a church service. He did believe in a Supreme Being and the power and efficacy of personal prayer. Today, as I look back, I understand his reluctance to associate with organized religion.

Daddy is gone. One day, life started normally. I attended my college classes, as usual. During the last class of the day, someone interrupted my class and requested that I collect all my belongings and come with them. As soon as I exited the class, I was told to go home immediately. 'Immediately' has a new meaning when you must use public transit, but I hurried home with respectable haste to respond to a perceived emergency. When I entered the house, I was told that Daddy was dead. He died in a useless and senseless industrial accident on the job. My home filled with relatives and friends, offering condolences. Amid the chaos, we took care of claiming the body and making arrangements to ship the body away for burial. My Superman was gone.

I can't convey to you the void that opened up that day. This towering symbol in my life was no more. To add to the pain, someone made an insane decision to have a church service for my father's last rites and final memorial. It was not just your usual Christian Southern Baptist funeral. Daddy's physical remains were rolled into the church one evening, we stayed with that body for the entire night, and we left the next morning after dawn to go home, eat and dress to attend the funeral. The funeral was a depressing affair since Daddy was not a baptized member of this church. How did Daddy feel about such a travesty? Even in death, he was left to fight for an ounce of dignity. No one can imagine how much of me died with him.

As the years go by, I continue to try to understand it all; Daddy's life was hard, his death instantaneous, and his memorial fitting only for an invisible man. I am still aware of the acute pain of his death and the absolute absurdity of his final memorial.