I remember Father's Day many summers ago, when I was going to Camp Calvary with my friend Susie. My dad drove me to her home, her brother unloaded my stuff into the van and he looked at me and whispered "Happy Father's Day". I thought it was an odd thing to say to me, thinking "you look amazing" would have been so much more appropriate, when he gestured towards my dad and I finally had a light bulb moment. I tried to make is sound like I thought it up myself but my dad was not convinced. The knowing grin was a giveaway! Hey, I was going to be gone for a whole week! You would have thought that was the best gift ever!My dad was the king of the wry grin. He told us all kinds of nonsensical things that come to mind whenever I think of him. Things like thunder was two clouds bumping together. I know this is not true, but since I don't really know what thunder is, I like the two clouds theory. In the days of the halter top, which was later replaced by the short shirt, he suggested I put a dime in my belly button so I could always call home. Later the dime became a quarter but I never tried it. I should have done it, it would have become a fashion statement, I am sure.
My dad also used to say "Don't let the door hit you on your way out", "Here's your hat, what's your hurry?" and "Come back when you can't stay so long". I think that was a joke, but I was never completely sure. He told me the entire time I was growing up that I should go to bed because he was tired. I never understood that until I grew up and had kids. Then I got it completely!
My dad used to correct us by making a buzzzz sound and then saying "X minus 2". He taught us all how to drive because my mother didn't have enough courage. My brother swears that he taught him how to parallel park by letting him back up and then yelling crash in his ear. All I remember from my driving instruction was when he would run his hand through his hair, sigh, and say my name with that exasperated tone. My mother went with me for the test, I suppose by then my father had taken a medical leave.When the police officer told me to make a left hand turn from the right hand lane, and I did so, he very unkindly did not give me a license. My father seemed of the opinion this man was well within his rights. I disagreed, if you are the guy in the uniform, people are going to do what you tell them. Another month later I passed but that officer told my mother I wasn't ready to solo. I tell you, it was a conspiracy!
My father was very proud of his Scottish heritage. When I dated a young man with a Mc last name, my father felt it important to advise me that Irish people lived in trees and tried to steal your livestock. I don't think this is why this relationship didn't work out, but I am not sure. We went to the Highland games each year and enjoyed the bagpipe bands and the Scottish dancers and the shortbread. When my father knew he was dying he asked that a bagpiper play at his funeral. When we arrived at the cemetery and the bagpiper was there, the floodgates opened for me. That poor bagpiper, standing in the freezing cold wind playing Scotland the Brave. What a glorious memory, to hear it played especially in honor of a man who found a sense of identity from the connection of his ancestors. It was not easy to leave my father there in that cemetery on that cold November day, but it was a great comfort to picture him joining the family who had gone on to glory many years before.
My father was musically gifted. It was a major part of his life and it shaped who he was, and who we all grew up to be. I can remember listening to Peter and the Wolf and learning to identify musical instruments. We learned all the major Broadway musicals and attended all the musical productions my father and his friends produced through the years. He attended ours too, but with much grimacing and disapproval. He said once in response to a talent show I had been a part of, about two young ladies who were not very talented, that there was a reason that Sears did not advertise wedding cakes. Because they did not have wedding cakes, word to the wise. He was a musical purist and had standards it was hard to achieve by the common choir director.
My father was King of the Television, Ruler of the Den, Keeper of the Car Keys. He could be sound asleep and still know when you were about to turn the channel, he didn't want his chair occupied by anyone but himself. If you were willing to sit still and be quiet you were allowed to stay. He was not a sip sharer, he waited to take a bath until every member of the younger generation was asleep, he liked to both watch the baseball game on the television and listen to it on the radio. He liked dry humor, nice golf shirts, and witty puns. He was always the last one to come to the table, he twirled his sideburns, and had a particular fondness for cashews.
In the last month of my father's life, he received communion, rededicated his life, and made his peace with the church. He shared his joys with me, precious memories of a life in music. I have always been grateful for the week I spent with him before he died, and for God's graciousness in giving me the assurance that this death was leading to life everlasting. The goodbye was hard, but so much easier than it could have been had it been a permanent one.
So Happy Father's Day again, Dad. I haven't forgotten "Buy low, sell high" or any of the other important advice you gave me through the years. I am grateful that you were my dad, even if I did think that I was actually born a Carnegie, or a Mellon, or Batgirl. I have learned to eat all my vegetables so I can grow "big and strong like Hopalong Cassidy". I remember you with great appreciation and love, pretty good Father's Day gifts, the kind that go on giving.
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