A Paean to My Daddy, a Grand Old Man

It's impossible to recapture or recount the forever impact my father, Jimmie, bequeathed me.  Ours reflected a special love, perhaps because I'm the youngest of seven children. In truth,  I sincerely believe he cherished me as "the Special One"!  How ironic that after his funeral service (called "a Home Going Celebration" in our culture), each of us claimed to have been his favorite!

"No, I was his favorite because..."

"That's not true, because he ALWAYS told me I was his favorite..."

"Oh, you're so mistaken! I know I was his favorite because we spent so much time together..."

The argument swirled on, and reached its crescendo only when we all agreed not to agree.

Of course, I was his favorite; I couldn't  number the times I sat on his lap as a preschooler, scrunching up so he could draw pictures for me in his "Indian Chief" notepad.  He took such painstaking care creating images I cherished long after I was too tall (and too old) to sit on that well-worn knee.

Memories abound: of watching him in his duties as Sunday School Superintendent in our Protestant denomination church.  Daddy's responsibilities comprised: recruiting teachers; motivating members to attend Sunday School; or (st least) dropping their children off; ordering materials, including those colorful  picture cards  of Jesus, haloed as he prayed; organizing classes according to age; and encouraging teachers to prepare their students to summarize what had been taught (and, hopefully, learned) at the end of the 60-minute classes.

Daddy knelt with his fellow deacons as they opened the 11:00 A.M., Order of Worship services with heartfelt prayers.  Some of the deacons gave short invocations, while the more seasoned ones like my Daddy "bowed in humble submission" and invited the presence of the Holy Spirit to take charge and "lead us in the paths of righteous for Your Name's sake." Yet others delivered singsong petitions to Almighty God the same way each Sunday they prayed. The younger of us Sunday School attendees would mimic them, word for word!  One of the deacons always declared, "I know I am a child of God although I move so slow."  We kids never could figure what that signified, but we knew exactly when  in his prayer he would recite it.  I don't think any of us understood what he meant, and to this day I still don't. .

Daddy wore either a blue or black serge single buttoned suit every Sunday.   He reserved the black one for First Sundays' Communion or funerals; the blue for all others.  After a typical Sunday dinner and before returning for the evening service, Daddy would take a nap.  He'd carefully hang the suit pants, making sure the creases remained straight for Sunday nights, and lie down.  It was then that my stealth operation began.  I would make sure  he was asleep, and then  tiptoe on what Robert Frost would have described as "little cat's feet," carefully retrieve his loose change (nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies) out of his suit jacket pockets, and just as craftily ease out.  Daddy never mentioned missing money and it took me years to wonder if he'd purposefully left the change for me to take! I wonder still.

Holidays and Sundays  were favorite times. Transplanted Southerners, my parents had brought the tradition of lavish (for us) Sunday dinners with them.  Mother usually began cooking on Saturday, sumptuous repasts of chicken and dressing; candied yams; smothered cabbage with ham hocks, onions, and green bell peppers;  and macaroni and cheese; followed by bread pudding, banana pudding, strawberry jello with sliced peaches  (there's always room...), or sweet potato pies.  No wonder Daddy took a nap.   He had to sleep all those carbs off!

Daddy worked two and three jobs to take care of his family of nine.  His full-time job was at the Chicago Pottery Company, but he also picked up odd jobs moving people, hauling scraps, or cleaning and painting apartments.  I thought there was  nothing Daddy couldn't do.  As far as I could see, my Daddy was ten-feet tall! It wasn't until I had married, relocated to a western city, and returned home for a visit that I realized he and I shared about the same height: five feet, 10 or 11 inches.  No matter, until the day Daddy died, he ranked as my tall, dark, handsome giant!

After he retired from his two or three jobs, Daddy worked for a time as a "Rent-a-Cop" at a neighborhood grocery store.  His gun wasn't loaded (I doubt it was real); just part of the uniform but because "Deke" was so widely respected, he never had to try and detain anyone.  He probably would have said, "You're under arrest" in his deacon's voice! Summers when my daughters visited their grandparents, "Papa" took them to an ice cream parlor after work.  He convinced them not to tell "Granny" how much ice cream they ate before dinner, and of course, they had to eat everything on their plates.

An insidious illness finally landed Daddy in a hospital in the same city where my family and I had relocated. Mother and Daddy had moved there because the climate was better, they felt.  He underwent surgery twice and never fully recovered from either of them.  I would visit him every day after work, a short distance from the hospital.  The last day I saw him, he seemed to be in a twilight sleep.  I rubbed his head and whispered, "Daddy? Daddy, Hi." He opened his eyes, stared directly at me, and murmured my name.  He closed his eyes, never to open them this side of Heaven, as deacons would intone. .

Around 2:30 the following morning, my phone rang.  A voice asked my name.  Groggily, I answered.  She asked my address and what sounded like other pedestrian questions.  Exasperated, I asked, "Why are you calling me?!"  In the gentlest voice, she identified herself as a nurse from the hospital.  It was her sad responsibility, she said, to inform me,"Your father just passed away."  (I think that's one of the reasons I don't like euphemisms for death,  How do you "pass away?" Intellectually, I understand.  The speaker  thinks it softens the shock, but nothing really can!)  When the elevator stopped on his floor, a nurse greeted us simply with, "He was a Grand Old Man.  We were honored to have been entrusted to care for him."  Grand Old Man, indeed!

At any rate, then I had to awaken my oldest sister, who was one of a throng gathered for our annual Family Reunion.  We took turns going to cities where other relatives lived to eat until we were stuffed, go sightseeing, and just enjoy each other's company.  That year, the Reunion was held in my adopted City.  Both nuclear and extended families and other relatives had arrived.  I woke my sister up and told her that the hospital had called and wanted us to hurry there, some sort of emergency.  She sat up and said, "You must be afraid to tell me that Daddy has died." I asked how she knew.  "I've been working in hospitals for a long time and we don't call people this early in the morning to ask them to come in and talk," she explained.

Well! I immediately suggested a division of labor.  "I'll take care of the hospital stuff, then, but I can't tell Mother."  She said she would, and she did.  The Reunion Dinner was bittersweet, lots of memories and, of course, the argument about who Daddy's favorite was.  I still knew I was, but   graciously conceded favorite status to one of the siblings.  I don't remember who!  But I still know I am Daddy's Favorite!  Happy Fathers Day, Daddy.

Dear Reader, I invite your responses, either here or at ordainedelder@aol.com.  Thanks!