Father's Day

I am late in posting this. Father’s Day is almost over. I must have a compulsive disorder. As readers of this blog know, I feel compelled to comment on everything that happens.

My father died twenty years ago at age 85. He was 31 when I was born; in those days that was considered old to become a parents for the first time. I always knew he loved me, but as a child I felt he was remote. Now I think he was unsure in his role as parent.

My parents were both quiet, unassertive people. They never voiced any disagreement with each other. I never heard either of them raise their voices.

They never argued with anyone. My mother said, “It is not polite to argue.” I think they were repressed. For whatever reason, both were afraid to express their feelings or their rights.

Daddy was not a success in business. To supplement his meager salary at the bank, he worked extra jobs at night. He always came home for supper, then went out again to balance the books and prepare monthly profit statements for a used car lot, a wholesale florist, and other small businesses. We children did not see much of him.

Twice, when I was a teenager, Daddy came to my aid. I was 14 when, at supper one night I begged to be able to wear lipstick. “All the other girls do.” The next night Daddy brought home a tube of lipstick and handed it to me. I burst into tears. I had lipstick, but I had not been permitted to select the color. Now I realize how brave he was. He never contradicted my mother in any way, but that time he did something my mother never would have thought of doing: buy something especially for me.

My clothes were dreadful. My cousins, who were 7, 9, and 11 years older than me, gave me their hand-me-downs. They were good clothes, good quality and expensive when they were new. My mother did not see any need to buy me anything else, even though all the skirts and blouses I wore to school were out of style by the time I inherited them. I never had a twin sweater set like “all the other girls” were wearing.

I was to introduce the speaker at a program before the entire student body of Paschal High School. Again, at supper, I burst into tears and begged for a suit to wear at this public event. The following Saturday my father took me to Robert Hall and let me select a blue wool suit to wear as I stood proudly on the stage before all those critical classmates.

That all happened more than 65 years ago. I still remember, and I am grateful.

To any fathers who read this: What will your children remember?