My Dad

My dad taught me a lot of what not to accept in a man

– in any man.

As forgiveness worked its way through my heart, mind and soul

– I realized that my dad also taught me a lot of good things, and a lot of things to look for and accept in a man.

My dad was a hard worker.

He went to work every day regardless of how he felt, or what else was wrong in his morning or day.

He was a wood factory worker and never made $2 an hour.

But he worked every day.

Monday through Friday 7 am to 4 pm, and Saturday from 7 am to noon.

The only time I can remember him not going to work was once or twice when he had the flu, and his fever was too high to get out of bed.

When my dad came home from a day’s work, he would eat supper, then go outside to either work the stock or in the garden or mow the yard.

Those were the days when we only had a pair of shears and a hoe for the weed-eater

– but there was not a blade of grass or a weed where it did not belong!

• This taught me the value of hard work. A work ethic that has often been called “crazy”.
• How many times I have been told – “You don’t even know how to do nothing!”

My dad was a master gardener.

We lived on what was called “gumbo clay”

– a ground that was very difficult to grow anything in, a ground that was very uncooperative and unforgiving.

Yet my dad had 3 massive gardens that over-produced every year

– year after year without fail.

He had fruit trees that covered about ½ of our 3 acres.

He was very adept at grafting 2 trees to create new kinds of fruit.

Some of those fruits were keepers, some were not!

We drew water out of the cistern to water the gardens, and the trees

– they never suffered during the heat or a drought.

• This taught me to try, and try, and try one more time. To use what I have without going for the latest and greatest methods or products.

My dad was a provider.

We never missed a meal, unless it was our choice.

We never went without shoes or clothes

– not the latest fashion, or even what we always wanted, but we had clothes and we had shoes.

We were never homeless

– our roof leaked on occasion, and our walls were not the warmest, but not once did we not have a place to sleep.

• This taught me how to make do with what I have, or to do without. To be thankful for what I have today, each day. And that somehow, tomorrow would be taken care of – time after time, day after day.

My dad did not have a good education.

He could barely read or sign his name.

But he was at a genius level when it came to math.

He could not explain how he got the answers, but never once did he miss a question, even without pen and paper

– no matter how long or difficult you tried to make it.

• This created in me a love of learning and reading. Although math has always been my worst subject!

My dad taught me how to play checkers and dominoes.

When I finally won a game or a hand? I had earned it!

I remember asking him why he wouldn’t just let win a game now and then.

His answer?

“How would that be helping you? If I just gave it to you? Earn it and you will never forget it!”

• This taught me to work hard for what I wanted. To not give up, and never ever quit trying. When I do “win”? Well, I deserve to win!

My dad had been a hobo in earlier years.

His dad and mom both had died during the flu epidemic in the early 1900’s, and by 1924 he was an orphan being raised by his older brothers.

One of his sisters-in-law was abusive to him, and he ran away when he was 12 years old.

He rode the train rails as a hobo, working where he could, doing whatever job was available.

He never talked about those years.

But after he and Momma bought the land I was born on, which touched the railroad at the back, my dad marked the trees with signs and ribbons so that other hobos would know we were a “safe house”.

In the years that followed, hobos were a regular in our yard, on our porch, and occasionally around our table.

• This created in me a love of travel – whether in reality, in and through books, or in conversations. I continue to love learning about other places and cultures.

My dad did not raise his voice to Momma, or to me.

He had a certain tone of voice that when used, we knew it was the final word.

I do not ever remember hearing him yell, even at the livestock.

There was a hardness about him that I instinctively knew not to push and try.

• I can only wish that I had gotten this part of him in me. But sadly, I grew up having a “voice” when I was angry or hurt, frustrated or confused. Now that I am older, and Rick is no longer here to breathe calmness – I have finally learned to grow stiller and quieter in those moments of greatest stress.

My dad was very much a creature of habit.

From the time he got up, until the time he went to bed.

How he drank his coffee, and what he would eat.

How he dressed, how he did his chores around the homeplace.

Even the time he used to do his life. 

• This taught me to value habits. But also to stretch beyond those habits and try new things, go new places, to reach farther than the end of my own thinking and ways.

Life lived and lessons learned.

Roots growing deep inside my soul that would carry me through the weather yet to come.