My father and I had a quarrelsome relationship. It was rocky from the beginning, and I am not quite sure why. I was a sickly, willful child with a temper who liked to dance and play basketball. Sometimes I would do both at the same time, which I thought was terrific. Dad did not.
“Concentrate on what you are doing!” He would shout from the kitchen window near the basketball goal. That usually made me angry, so to spite him, I would quit both. I went through a stage where no matter how many times the rod was not spared on my backside, I couldn’t stop making sassy remarks. He didn’t understand my nature, and quite frankly, neither did I.
I spent the better part of my life trying to please my father, but I was not sure I ever did until recently. I was pretty confident he thought poorly of me when he left on a November day in 1999 to live among the angels. After his death, I would often reflect on our connection and talk to his spirit. Yet, I still felt strangely distant from this man I called Daddy.
Since I have been writing for the last few years, I ironically find myself becoming closer to my father. The stories he told me vividly return to my mind as if he spun them yesterday. The memories of his family, his friends, and his love for Mom are woven into sentences today. His emotional ways, sensitive nature, honesty, and humor still live through the words I write.
I am humbled when I study his ancestors’ memoirs and recognize the blood that flows through me came from a mighty river of gutsy, hardworking, and groundbreaking folks. When I return to the place of my heritage, in the hills of Tennessee, I see him as I walk the streets where our family once strolled and as I pass the white clapboard house where I was born.
Before Memorial Day, I sat at my desk with a deadline approaching, knowing I needed to write a column regarding the holiday. I stared at my computer for a moment and asked God for help, and then my hands began to type a story that Dad recounted to me when I was a young girl. I did my research, edited, and finished the column. When I finished, I read it to my husband and afterward remarked, “I have no idea where that came from!”
Once it was polished, I sent it to my editors, and as a quick passing thought, I also submitted the article to The Tennessean newspaper in Nashville. I again told my husband, “I just did the craziest thing!”
The story my father told me as a girl was printed as The Tennessean’s Memorial Day story.
When I was a small child, I recall my father sitting me in his lap every Sunday before church and reading the same Tennessee paper’s comics.
Afterward, I was assured Dad was still with me, and we finally understood each other’s blessing. I appreciated this man more than I ever had. He taught me so many valuable life lessons I did not recognize until I started writing them down. The ups and downs along the rocky road had evolved into a smooth path of acceptance and peace. His love lives in stories that come to me in the middle of the night or as I stare at a blank computer. I know the hand of my father still guides me.
I read the comics every morning because Daddy always said, “They start your day with a smile.” I find they do. He also abhorred laziness, and so do I. He loved people more than anyone I ever knew except maybe, me. Some things never get old or fade away or ever really die, like our fathers’ lessons.
Father’s Day is a special day for Dads who are young, old, or in between. It is also a special day of remembering the departed fathers who gave us the wisdom, the love, and the drive to carry on and heed their words.
I don’t dance and play basketball at the same time anymore. Nor do I quit. I concentrate on getting the stories straight because I still enjoy pleasing my daddy. I finally learned.
For Ray Caraway Walker, my father.
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Lynn Walker Gendusa is a Georgia-based author and columnist. Her work appears regularly on NowHabersham.com and across the U.S. through the USA Today Network. She can be reached at www.lynngendusa.com.
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