You Were There, Dad
Happy Father’s Day!
“Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices call him father ” Lidia M. Child
On a dark, rainy night a small child lay in her bed, beset by nameless fears and hazy anxieties. From downstairs the sounds of a crinkling newspaper made by her father comforted her. She pictured him settled in his old and scruffy chair, feet resting on an equally timeworn hassock, reading the news of the day which in the early 1940’s was, of course, war news. The child had only a vague awareness of troubling newspaper contents, but she heard and understood the crinkling sounds and so she slept. The child was me.
That nighttime memory, insignificant as it may seem, is one of my most profound. As I look back on childhood with the added perspective of having experienced parenthood and grandparenthood, I now realize how enormously important it is for parents to embrace, with exuberance and joy, the daily routines affecting our children, because these ordinary activities will become the solid building blocks of happy and productive lives. They may come to be the family traditions of the future and the shining lightbulbs of recollections which the child will pass along to each succeeding generation.
Recalling my father as Father’s Day approaches, I fervently wish I could tell him, in my own way, how much he meant to me. Perhaps I did that from time to time over the years as I was growing up, but “too little, too late” keeps rat-a-tat-tatting in my brain. If I could back up the years a bit, here’s what I would say to him:
You were there.
You were there, Dad, a quiet, gentle, brilliant man, who filled my childhood with your ever-present guidance even though your words were scarce. I knew that you were an engineer and that you went to work every morning to engage in exciting, vital, futuristic projects which today we all enjoy, such as TV’s, microwaves and cell phones.* Important stuff, yes, but I only cared that precisely at five-thirty every evening you would walk in the door. There was a comforting routine here. Contemporary minds have concluded that young children thrive on familiar behaviors and customs; a core “known entity” on which they can depend. Did you know that back then? Subconsciously I’ll bet you did.
You were there.
As I lay in my bed at night, not too crazy about the darkness, I imagined you sitting in your worn-out chair, reading that crinkling newspaper or quietly working diligently with pencil, pad and slide rule in hand, figuring out some complicated, seemingly undecipherable engineering formulas. To me, being a little girl full of the usual fears, self-doubts and inadequacies of young childhood, it mattered only that you were there.
You were there.
Every Sunday morning, without fail, you made room on your lap for my sister and me so that you could read the funny paper to us long after we could read it ourselves. Your favorites were Little Orphan Annie, Skeezix, Blondie and Pogo. Mine too.
You were there.
I fell off my new bike (older sister hand-me-down) over and over again during the age-old learning stages of this endeavor, but your strong arms lifted me off the ground and your nod almost certainly ensured that I would eventually succeed.
You were there.
When childhood illnesses hit, as they inevitably did in those pre-vaccination days, my mother sat at my bedside playing endless games of Old Maid and Authors, but I knew you were close at hand…guarding, protecting and ready to rush to the drugstore for medicines or to the dime store for more crayons and comic books. When I had the mumps you even shared that experience with me by coming down with them yourself.
You were there.
We lived on a lake so you bought a rowboat, but you would not let my sister or me near it until we learned to swim well and row that boat. Those rowing lessons were annoying; we didn’t have the patience for it but you hung in there making sure we could handle the boat safely. I spent many happy hours rowing around the lake fishing for sunfish and watching the herons and turtles.
You were there.
You had no sons so you taught me how to throw a “football spiral.” You were SO NOT athletic, but you knew how to throw that football and you taught me well. My girlfriends and I frequently indulged in the sport in an empty field nearby. No boys allowed. Except you.
You were there.
Your people skills were a little shaky; you were a scientist, after all and not into long discussions about feelings. Sometimes I would grow extremely frustrated and give the universal shout of “You just don’t understand!” However, one night when you and Mom were giving a small party, one of the ladies dropped and broke a crystal glass. She was mortified, but shortly thereafter you dropped and broke one too. Accident? Perhaps, but I will always remember the look of relief on that woman’s face.
You were there.
Teenage years approached with a vengeance. Dating commenced. Hearts were broken. Boys came and went but you were always there, often to my displeasure, making sure to flick the porch light on and off if my date took too long saying goodnight. When I walked in the door, there you would be, sitting…waiting. I was, of course, forming what would be my lifelong attitudes about men and the fleeting experiences with teenaged boys were just that…fleeting. The real lesson was the continuity of you and your love for me, no matter how exceedingly unlovable I was at times during those turbulent years.
You were there.
“You gotta eat!” was your advice when those educational and ultimate career choices had to be made. Dream away, but keep one foot firmly planted on the ground. I listened, Dad, and eventually was able to both “eat” and make my dreams a reality.
You were there.
It was my wedding day. You and I were beginning our walk down the aisle…father and daughter…following a timeless tradition, beautifully, joyfully and with all heads looking our way as the music began. I turned to you and said,
“I’m going to be sick!”
You looked so horrified that I suddenly had the urge to giggle, and that terrible moment passed. Many fathers would have tried to comfort their daughters in such a situation, but unwittingly you chose the perfect remedy without a word being spoken.
You lovingly cared for my mother during her final illness. We were so thankful that you were there for her and you did your best to go on without her for the next twenty years.
There are so many things I wish I could say to you as Father’s Day draws near. I am finally putting into words what should have been said long ago. When I was young you were my hero and my protector. As I grew older you were my reluctant verbal sparring partner; we butted heads often, left brain (you) vs. right brain (me) but you never, ever raised your voice. Later I watched your grandchildren and great grandchildren fall in love with you and strive so hard to make you proud, just as my sister and I had done. You inspired us all, not for your accomplishments as an engineer, although they were remarkable, but simply as our dad and our grandpa.
I had the privilege and agony of traveling with you on your road to old age and gradual infirmity. When you could no longer speak, I held your hand and hoped you knew how much I loved you and that I was there, finally, for you.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
*Forbes Magazine, 12/23/2002, “85 Innovations 1939–1947”
“While at Bell Labs, D.H. Ring dreamed up a mobile telephone service that used low-power transmitters sprinkled throughout targeted calling areas. The FCC stymied the idea by limiting the number of radio-spectrum frequencies for mobile telephone services; it didn’t reconsider its position until 1968.”
*The Idea Factory: Bell Labs and the Great Age of American Innovation, by Jon Gertner
*Inventors in Monmouth County, NJ, by George Joynson
*Forgotten Heroes, The NY Times, May 22, 2013
