A Southern Girl Calls Him Her “Daddy”

My Daddy.

That’s what I call him.  Daddy.

Not Dad or Father or Pops or anything else.  Just Daddy.  If I’m talking to him, about him, to you about him, I will still always call him Daddy.

He’s a strong man; physically, personality, intelligence, opinion, humor, beliefs.   He is firm, but loving.  Affectionate.  Funny.  A provider.  He’s blonde haired, light eyed, handsome.  My whole life (and probably long before) he’s worked-out to keep his body in top shape.  Always at home, always after a long day’s work.  He jogs, bikes and lifts weights – even now.  I can still hear the sound of the weights clanging in the garage.

 He’s also has always collected things.  Baseball cards, coins, stamps, and the like.   He was raised a city boy, but now lives on a farm.  Cows, hay, barn, tractor.  It’s a great place.

He can fix anything; household, car, farm. When I was growing up, my sister and I were always his “assistants”.  I’ve held a flashlight more hours than I care to remember.  But, that’s how I learned.  There’s a lot I can fix now because I learned while holding the flashlight for my Daddy.

His career was with the Postal Service.  He was tough, I think, but always fair.  Some of the folks at the last place he works still talk about how much they miss him there.  He also taught college classes for a while.  Again, tough but fair.  I also remember when I was little, my Daddy was in college.  He went part-time, at night, after work.  It took a while, but he made it.  His whole career he only made one “B” and all his other grades were “A’s”.  Wow.  I told you he was smart!  I guess all those nights my mama, sister and I were huddled around the tiny 8″ tv in the back bedroom so the house could be perfectly quiet for him to study paid off!  ha ha ha.  I can still can hear him yelling at us to “turn that tv down!”  I also can still hear him and my mama arguing about his handwriting.  He’d write a paper and she’d type it for him.  (she’s fast as lightning)  But, my Daddy is left-handed and some of his letters are questionable.  It’s all funny now.  It was NOT funny then.  But, we all survived his college career.  I’m proud of him for how he persevered through it all.  A stressful full-time job, school and family.

 I remember, too, for a while he worked the “early shift” and would be home about the same time my sister and I would come home from school.  We’d watch the afternoon soap opera and mess around the house.  It was fun having him home.  My parents never missed an event my sister and I were involved in.  I don’t know how they did it.  One time, at least once, when I was in elementary school, my Daddy came to my classroom and talked to us, like a career day kind of thing.  I was so happy to have him there.

 He used to take us over to Florida High to the track and we’d run and play on the playground and have good family time.  He loves to take pictures.  He has always loved to take pictures.  He’s got lots and lots of photo albums and discs.

He never throws anything away.  If you need it, he has it.  On the one hand, it’s great.  In the other hand…….  He’s an avid gunman, history buff, meat-eater.  He’s been the perfect Daddy for me.  He’s always been firm with me;  apparently I needed it.  But also very loving.  Lots and lots of squeezes, fun and games, exercising, jokes.  He’d play hide and go seek with all of us in the neighborhood after dark.  He’d get us in trouble at the dinner table; sticking his tongue out at us behind his napkin.  Constantly picking on me, tripping me in parking lots, poking me.  One of his favorite picks is asking me “who did your hair? Jack?”  It started as some reference to Jack the Ripper, probably something I said that was totally incorrect, not knowing exactly who Jack the Ripper was.  But it stuck.  It’s been over thirty years of him asking me if “Jack” did my hair.  We’ve got several long-term family jokes like that.  I’ll miss them one day.

 Like him calling me “Monkey”.  That was my nickname when I was a kid.  He called me Monkey for years and years.  I’m not even really sure why.  But I answered to it like it was my name.  Most of the time he’d say it and laugh.

 I still cry every time I tell the story of my wedding day.  The entire party was in the prayer room behind the sanctuary and one by one they each left to walk down the aisle. Soon it was just me and Daddy.  He held my hand, looked at me and said, “You sure do look pretty.”  Mush.  I was mush.  I still turn to mush every time I think of it.

He’s been my hero since I can remember.  I could write volumes.  I wish I were as smart as my Daddy, but I am so glad he taught me common sense, practical, how-to every-day stuff.  I can fix the potty, change a light fixture, figure out what’s wrong with the car, paint the walls, because my Daddy did all that and “made” me help. (He also taught me how to shoot guns!) Thanks, Daddy.  You’ve given me great life skills.  Taught me crazy-great skills.  You’ve been a great Daddy and I’m proud to say I’m your daughter.  Of course, most importantly, you taught our family Jesus.  That’s really all that matters.  It was always non-negotiable.  Thank you for a great life here and introducing me to Jesus so I’ll have a great life in eternity.  You’re a fantastic Daddy.  I love you!