Dad

Growing up, we never really had much. I know that now as an adult, as a child, I never knew that until I went to school. My dad was a creative fella. There really was not anything he could not do. He was an over-the-road truck driver, a mechanic, a farmer, even an egg cook my kindergarten year. It was half day kindergarten, and he would always pick me up from school. I looked forward to him picking me up, enjoying whatever jalopy he would be driving. I found myself fascinated by all of the things he would have to do to make whatever the jalopy of the day was operate. Minor details such as making it start, go and stop all the while he would hum that I would only hear when the jalopy would die. Nothing ever had a muffler; brakes were always optional.

 He would always ask me how I wanted my eggs for lunch; it was always some form of scrambled, on rare occasions, he would add potatoes. I never minded; however now, I wonder why he asked me how I wanted them, knowing they would be scrambled. He was a wealth of knowledge; I highly doubt I realized that then. I am not sure if he ever knew, but I idolized him.

As I aged, we were not very close. I found myself continuously looking for his approval. Never feeling as if I could quite meet the bar. That always bothered me, I could not understand what he expected of me. I am now certain that our differences were because I was a female replica of him. You could not tell me anything. I of course did not have near the wisdom my father did. Of which he most likely obtained in the same manner’s that I have, the hard way. There is not a single one of my siblings that is not hardheaded, apples do not fall far from their trees.

I was twenty-two just short of twenty-three when my mom died. I was devastated, angry, lost, nothing would ever be the same. I made a lot of bad choices; self-destruction kicked into high gear. In my entire life, my mom dying is the only time I ever seen my father remotely cry. That was rough to witness, the strongest man any of us know is our father. Looking back, he was just as broken as the rest of us were. He and my mom were from a different time. I did not know immediately how lost and devasted he was. Guga was getting his clothes out for him, cooking for him, even reminding him to wear deodorant and to shave, she was holding things together, yet trying to grieve, much like the rest of us. Her children were also fairly young. I am so thankful that Guga held it together so that the rest of us did not have to see exactly how devastating the loss of my mom was to my father.

I am not sure how much time had passed, and my dad began to date. I was bitter and angry. That drove yet another wedge between my father and I. Eventually, my dad remarried, I found myself filled with more bitterness, anger, hurt, maybe even betrayal.  My destruction continued, of course it was everyone’s fault but my own. I repeatedly, as well as intentionally, continued making poor decisions. I remember going to my dad and asking him for help one night. The problem with any decision, you may not see the immediate result of your choice, however, good or bad, eventually it will catch up to you. Instead of him offering me assistance, he walked to the cupboard, grabbed a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, tossed it at me, after I caught it, he very calmly said, “I reckon you have until the end of that can to figure it out.” I was beyond angry at the time. His lack of empathy toward me further fueled my feeling of inadequacy.  That was the only time I ever recall asking my dad for anything.  I must have figured it out. That was not the worst of it. Maybe one day we will get into how far I fell.

If he had work to be done, I would be the first one he would call. I always showed up. Growing up, that is how you spent time with dad. You went outside and worked with him. He was always working or at a bare minimum piddling with something.

Still searching for his approval, I went to college when I was 30 something. It took me a bit to finish as I took other classes that pertained to the occupation I wanted to do. Those classes were not affiliated with any college, however accredited.  One day, he was talking about schooling, most likely not my schooling. Dad said, “I knew you would not finish”. I had already been working my desired occupation. However, that lit a fire in me, I will show you. I went back and finished, not saying a word to my dad about it. I still have the text message telling him the date, time and location of my graduation. You had better believe my 39-year-old self is walking. Tell me I cannot, or will not be able to do something, I will either accomplish it or die trying. I never received a response from my dad. I had seen and spoken to him several times between the time I had told him about graduation and the actual event. I even hand delivered two tickets to him. I gave him the tickets, he asked me what they were for, I told him and his response was huh. Not a question, but a statement. I felt defeated. I had spent my entire life, at this point, 39 years trying to impress him. Wishing he would have at least said that he either would or would not be there. His lack of words leads me to believe he would not. Walking day had arrived. I found myself missing my mom more than usual. Replaying the previous sixteen years of her absence. Feeling empty and out of place. I had told Amy that I no longer wanted to walk, what was the point? I had a piece of paper that was good enough for me. Amy reminded me of all of the sacrifice that was wrapped in that piece of paper. I know that people graduate college all of the time. Not a huge ordeal. What Amy reminded me of was that it was a huge ordeal for me. I had accomplished what even I, deep down, felt was impossible. I was never a smart kid, I struggled and barely got by in school. I would not say I was dumb; it simply never came easy to me. I remember when I first started college, I had to take pre-algebra, yes that is where I had to start. The syllabus required us to bring a calculator on the first day. That is all it said was a calculator. I showed up on the first day, calculator in hand. The teacher had us all hold up our calculators to prove we had them. I quickly realized my calculator did not look like all of the others. As his eyes scanned, they stopped at me, he asked me my name, I reluctantly told him. He called me by my name and asked me what I thought I was going to do with my Amish calculator. I did not understand what he even meant by that. I was not Amish.

I remembered that not only did I struggle, but Amy’s entire family sacrificed so that I could go to college. None of us were born with silver spoons to be inherited. I, like the rest of the world, still had to survive, bills and responsibilities never stopped. Amy, her husband and girls would be right there with me gathering junk to take to the junk yard so I could purchase my books for school. There were several times Amy’s husband would slip me his weekly lunch money to me for gas to commute. He never made me ask, I certainly never expected it, after all, they had plenty of responsibilities as well as raising their girls. It was not as if I had forgotten how unselfishly Amy, c, their girls as well as the rest of their immediate family had invested in me. I was more concerned with the man who years before tossed me the can of Dinty Moore beef stew. Amy’s husband even sold his prized possession, his mustang, to help cover the cost of my education. It finally occurred to me, the unconditional love, support, the very no strings attached type of love was right in front of me. The feeling of love and support that I was certain had died the morning my mom died. It would not have mattered if I went to school to do pedicures on dogs, (no, I do not do dog pedicures), my mom would have been there cheering so loudly. What I would have given to look in the crowd and see her, I am certain my mom was there, she simply had a much better seat than most.  Amy was going to drag me to graduation by my ear, whether I wanted to go or not, I was going. I am not a feminine type of woman, why this day of all days I decided to wear high heels to graduation. Not even a chunky high heel, it was the type that if you stepped on anything other than a solid surface you’re sinking, breaking an ankle type of heel. I can also promise that I was not very skilled at walking in those shoes. As I am typing this, I am envisioning a baby giraffe after it is first born, except I am more along the shape of a hippopotamus. So, picture giraffe legs on a hippopotamus body. I am not sure how ladies wear those uncomfortable things. Some people can run in them. I am more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs as I am waiting in line for my name to be called. I am staring at three steps I am going to have to climb up and three steps to walk down. Still picturing the baby giraffe legs on the hippopotamus body. I made it up and down just fine. I was walking back to my seat, I spotted my dad, he was standing a few rows back from where my seat was, clapping with a smile on his face. Nothing else mattered at that moment.

Toodle-loo