Dad

DAD

 

July 2, 1982 dawned clear. I don’t remember if it was a hot day, but I do know it had sunny skies and puffy clouds.

I don’t remember any headlines or important events. Ronald Reagan was president, and I had been married about six months.

It was the day I found out I was pregnant with my first child, and it was the day I lost my dad.

I was at work when the call came. Strange coincidence – I was at work when I got the call that my mom had passed away a little over thirty years later. Work is a constant in life, is it not?

In this July, I was a nurse’s assistant working on a medical floor. That particular morning, I was distracted about the idea of becoming a mom. I married my then husband after knowing him a mere three months despite warnings from everyone I knew and misgivings on my part.

My pride was stronger than my common sense. It is remarkable the roads we willingly go down in exchange for the path that leads to life.

I was called to the nurse’s station to find my mom on the phone saying my dad had been in an accident and we needed to go to the hospital where he was right away.

In the era before GPS, it was a wild ride with my hysterical mother.

When we found the hospital where he was supposed to be, we were sent to the emergency room. A nurse met us and took us to a back room. My father had been pinned between the wheels of a semi-truck. He most likely died instantly.

My mom took this very hard and wept uncontrollably. I did not shed a tear. I was nineteen years old.

There were a lot of issues between my mom and I. She was a controlling and manipulative person, and I was a rather headstrong and rebellious teenager. In fact, my unfortunate first marriage was a foolish attempt on my part to get away from her. She had always treated my father with a good deal of contempt, so this sudden devastation at his loss made me angry.

It was one of the first times in my life I felt completely alone.

My dad was very different from my mom. He was laid back, easy going – to a fault sometimes, leaving me to handle mom. He wasn’t very good with rules – doing things his own unique way. He never finished high school, joining the Merchant Marines during World War II at fourteen by lying about his age.

When he was a small boy, he lost his right eye in an accident, so he couldn’t join the military like his friends. The Merchant Marines supplied the troops, but were not armed. He didn’t have much of a relationship with his dad. His parents divorced when he was young – a rare thing in those days. I never knew my grandparents.

After the war, he tried various trade schools but never finished any. He met my mom when she rented an apartment in his building. His mom encouraged them to marry – it was high time he got out of the house!

I don’t suppose anyone would describe my dad as a successful man. He was just a dock worker for a trucking company for most of his life. He also drove delivery trucks. But we shouldn’t judge someone by their career track.

He remains the only person I’ve ever known that could complete a New York Times crossword puzzle. He loved to read - spending much time with Shakespeare, Mark Twain, and Jack London. He was a talented artist who could reproduce the work of Remington on just about any surface. He would regularly sketch Disney characters for me, as well as build ships in bottles.

Time with my dad involved ice cream, MacDonald’s, and interesting discussions. He taught me to drive, took me fishing, and was the perfect host when my aunt and uncle would visit from France. He loved boats, swimming, and the Cubs. He criticized my literature choices and pointed me in better directions. He provided me with a guitar that I taught myself to play, and my first car.

My memories of my dad are predominately good – I never doubted he loved me. He was gentle and thoughtful and willing to listen.

One time while teaching me to drive, I was railing about my mom. He said, “Nicole, don’t you know how to handle your mother by now? You smile, nod, and do whatever you want.”

Advice I would not give to a sixteen year old, but advice wholly applicable to my mother and that I followed for the rest of her life.

My dad always had about three cars at a time, one he drove and two he worked on. One time as I was going out he informed me that he was going to rebuild the engine of the car he was working on. Coming home at the end of the day, he was sitting outside smoking - and the driveway was full of car parts. I asked, “Hey Dad, I thought you were going to rebuild the engine!”

“I did.”

Confused I asked, “Well, why are there all these parts in the driveway?”

“It didn’t need those anyway!”

That was my dad in a nutshell – He did many things, but he did them his way.

He even started a business making concrete birdbaths and planters – I remember carrying the bags of cement for him to the mixer in the back yard. I still have some planters he made on my front porch. 

Once in a while, I think I see him on the road or in a crowd and the tears finally come to my eyes. The weekend before he died, I could have seen him and didn’t – something I will always regret.

Every July 4^th I think of my dad. He would have loved his grandchildren. I’m very sorry he never met them.

You know, every person is a conglomerate of good and bad. We’re just people in need of a Savior. We should never judge a life by accomplishments alone. This is something to remind ourselves when it becomes popular to rewrite history and destroy monuments to the past.

A person will always be a product of their time and circumstances. Wisdom gives grace and seeks to understand.