A Daughter’s Regret

I regret not writing stories told of my dad’s childhood, his school days, his college years, when he and mother met and married. It was careless of me and a bit prideful, too. Careless in that being a child and hearing “Back in my day. . “ a million times and instantly being bored, eyes rolling. Prideful thinking my memory (or his) would hold through the years. Maybe we remember only the things that are really important.

The things I do remember: him telling me he always wore a tie with his white t-shirts in the early 60s, dating a girl named Star; him being a top ranking paper-boy and winning a trip to New York (not bad for an Arkansas boy); his own made-up language (instead of possibilities, he’d say “p@ssabolities,”). If something was screwed up, he’d say it was “gillflirted”, while my math skills were “new math.” We were in a drug store one time. I don’t know how old I was. Certainly not old enough to know better. I spotted a raggedy old man walking around with a limp. I pointed and said, “Dad, look! That man has the Jake leg.” Embarrassed, my dad quickly shoved me out the door. Oh, the honesty of a child! I was turning out to be exactly like him.

A cute story about my dad and his paper route. When it was time to collect money from his customers, it would take him so long to do so, his mother, Alta, would start worrying. He was always fine, it just took him awhile because he always got invited in for visits.

When he was really little, he was scared to go to the bathroom at night. He thought there “might be a tiger in there.” His dad, Ray, finally convinced him to go. Then, his dad threw a shoe and dad peed everywhere. Poor fella.

I remember Christmas as a five-year old and receiving a bag of switches from “Santa.” I cried. When I was six or seven, he bought me a beautiful white horse named Valentine. I’d feed him sugar cubes from my miniature hands. At sixteen, he bought me a brand new thunderbird. Yes, I was spoiled, but didn’t know it then.

When I was thirteen, he wasn’t sure I’d live to see fourteen. I was a back-talking queen! When I was deciding whether or not to attend college, he threatened to break my arms and my legs. So, I went. And I’m glad I did.

There were things he’d do to annoy me like hiding behind doors, only to pop out as I walked past. More so annoying was when he’d pinch my clavicle and I’d yelp.

I was the son he never had. I learned to fish, play golf (not that women don’t, it’s just that I was the only one in my high school who did). He taught me to drive standard on a 1940s urine yellow Willys Jeep. We went mud riding with a group from church. It was a blast.

I had a great job working for my dad. I answered calls and made copies. One day, he was on the phone and had a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth. I walked in to hand him a note. I guess my sudden appearance rattled him. Next thing I know, he’s spitting into the receiver! It was, perhaps, the very thing that made him quit.

When I graduated high school, our family went to Jamaica. I learned to eat escovitch fish for breakfast and it was delicious. Once, when I was eleven, we went to New Orleans and I saw a sign for beignets. I remember asking what bing-etts were. Dad thought my pronunciation was hilarious. He still reminds me of it to this day.

There was a time there was a rift between us. My brother-in-law would constantly hit my dad up for hand outs. He obliged because of my sister. Eventually, I spoke my mind telling her it had to stop. Obviously, it created bad feelings between us. What I didn’t expect was dad also being cross with me. I had tried to stand up for him and it wasn’t appreciated.

This hurt me deeply. I removed myself from his life. I’d almost say it is another regret; however, I still believe restoring one’s dignity is never wrong.

Emotional pain doesn’t have a stop button. Not for me. The hurt lingers. Relationships change as we age.and maybe it’s because we appreciate each other more and more. It’s like the quote by Rumi, “Yesterday I was clever. Today, I am wise, so I’m changing myself.” I allow myself some grace and move on.

Letting go is something I still wrestle with. To me, it’s almost as hard as performing the TikTok challenge of running with the same arm and leg. (Those are so funny!)

My father is 82- years old now and sharp as a tack. I am glad we forgave each other. I make sure to ask questions about his life through the years. I don’t like him living alone. I beg him to stay with us every now and then, but he doesn’t. Not because he doesn’t want to, it’s the notion of being a burden that makes him refuse. His church family loves him. He buys gift cards on eBay and shares them with the congregants on fixed incomes. I greatly admire him for that. He has the proverbial “heart of gold.”

I cannot bear the thought of losing him. He is all I have left. When my son emptied my bank account at the time of my husband’s death, it was my dad who helped me get back on my feet. (By the way, our son’s name was never on the joint account.) Eventually, I got most of the money back. My son has been instructed to have no contact with me. I truly lost my mind and wound up hospitalized. I am so much better, thanks to dad’s support. How fortunate I’ve been. Sometimes a lifetime isn’t enough.