Daddy – Sittin' Ugly Sistahs

Not My Usual Mother’s Day Post

Posted on May 8, 2024 by Nancy Malcolm

I’ve always had to share my birthday month with some pretty well-known festivities: the end of school, graduations, and Mother’s Day. Usually at this time of year I become melancholy at the thought of Mother’s Day and not having my mother to honor.

I have spent years dreading Mother’s Day. I’ve slighted my own celebration of being a mother in lieu of loathing all the reminders of what I don’t have and all I have missed.

I have spent hours smirking at Hallmark commercials and sneering at florist bouquets that I have never gotten to send.

I have spent an endless amount of time missing my mother and feeling the huge depth of loneliness from having to grow up without her.

But, what I meant to say is that I still miss her sixty-six years later.

I still wish I had known her for myself, and not just through my brother and fathers’ memories.

I still dread the Hallmark commercials and influx of florist bouquets to buy or nightgowns to gift.

I still wish my daughters could have had a grandmother.

I still look at her pictures and marvel at her forever youth and beauty. She never grew old, and as I age, I wonder…do I look like she would have?

Lately, I have been thinking of all the ways my daddy tried to be a mother to my brother and me. I’ve spent lots of time being angry at what he didn’t do or say. I have written volumes about his temper and harsh ways he disciplined us. But, lately, ever so softly, I have felt the call to see the good.

Every Saturday night was bath night when I was a little girl. My daddy would try to curl my hair on pink spongy rollers so I would look presentable for church the next day.

He bought me an Easter dress and patent leather shoes every spring, complete with a hat and purse.

In elementary school he planned and executed backyard birthday parties for me and my friends. We played games, had cake and punch, opened gifts and he always took pictures.

Daddy made sure I joined Girl Scouts and got to go to camp during the summer. He let me borrow his Brownie Camera and made sure I had a fresh roll of film for my scouting escapades.

In 8^th grade he paid for me to join Cotillion so I could learn manners, how to dance, and the social rules about dating boys.

He took us to church and made sure we were baptized. As I got older, he encouraged me to go to MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) and took me every Sunday evening. (even though my friends and I sometimes left to smoke cigarettes in the park behind the Church!)

After I got my driver’s license he let me take the family car, a ’63 Chevy Impala, to high school, complete with bench seating, no power steering, and a secret cigarette burn on the floor board I never confessed to.

Even though my father was a frugal man and pinched every penny he ever had, I always had a winter coat, a formal dress when I needed it, and new school shoes every year.

He instilled in my brother and me a strong work ethic and a knowledge and appreciation for saving money. He worked as an electrical engineer for forty years at the same company. Being a company man, with a pension, was especially important to him.

Daddy paid for me to attend four years at Baylor University and my brother to go to The University of Texas. He used the money my mother inherited from her father and saved it all those years, just for our college education.

My father did a lot of things for my brother and me in the name of: ‘Your mother would have wanted you to…’

‘Your mother would have made sure you…’

Daddy was strict in a lot of ways and had rules he wanted us to follow come hell or high water. He was practical and pragmatic, and sometimes critical to a fault, but his love and devotion to our mother guided many things he tried to do for us. Nurturing didn’t come easy for him, nor did saying ‘I love you,’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’ But sometimes we knew it, just by the way he would look at us with tender eyes.

I was four and my brother was eight when our mother died. I don’t know if Daddy made a death bed promise to our mother that he would take care of us the way she would have wanted, but he did take care of us and loved us the best he knew how. I think she both smiled and cringed as she watched us from above. As a parent, I can imagine how hard it must have been for him, and how much dedication it took to get up every day with a determination to do his best. I appreciate all he did for us and the many ways he showed up as our only parent.

Recently, my brother and I were talking about Daddy and lamenting about something he did when we were kids. In a moment of compassion, my brother said, “He really did do the best he knew how. Remember, he was young. He was only thirty-three years old and had two small children without a mother.” I was struck by that loving thought. What thirty-year-old is prepared to go through a spouse’s long illness and subsequent death, much less be left with two young kids? It is something no one can be prepared for.

Because of my brother’s words, I have more grace toward Daddy, and a deeper understanding of his situation, not just ours.

And, if I could just say one last thing to my father, one thing that might bring a smile to his face and a warmth to his heart, I think it would be this…

Happy Mother’s Day, Daddy.

Family

Up on the Roof by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on June 4, 2021 by gingerkellergannaway

Daddy could think like a kid. He sought out new experiences and made games out of mundane experiences. He’d invent silly activities a child could get excited about and a momma would fuss about.

“Reginald! Stop working the kids up! Tete dure!” was a go-to complaint from Momma.

One of Daddy’s kid ideas was putting us on his high, broad shoulders so we could climb onto our home’s roof and run around and be eye-level with the birds.

Maybe the activity originated from Emile’s football getting thrown up there by accident or Gayle throwing Kelly’s favorite stuffed animal up there on purpose. But it became a thing to do on slow afternoons.

No matter how the idea originated, Daddy understood the thrill of doing something unusual and with a dash of danger. I remember my hesitancy on the sloping asphalt-like roof tiles as we chased each other from the area above our den, down the long hall of bedrooms, toward the big living room, dining room, and above Momma’s kitchen. The experience could be scary, but I felt invincible and wild to be so near those long live oak branches as if I were a bold bluejay. We never stayed on the roof long. After a few whoops and hesitant games of tag, we’d hear the shrill call from the kitchen below us.

“Reginald! Mon Dieu! Get those kids off the roof! Tete dure!”

Momma had spoken. Her feisty anger was the voice of reason to Dad’s love of adventure.

Also, he gave us cool vacations every summer: from countless Florida beach trips to a drive up to visit cousin Ozman in Michigan with a stop in Chicago to see cousin Lucille. We all learned to appreciate the joy of travel.

One year Dad got us a pony from his close friend Coach Cormier. We learned to ride Red bareback in our yard and in the rice fields that surrounded our property. Dad made us jump into the deep end of the swimming pool before we knew how to swim. He’d tread water in the ten-foot deep water and grab us when we bobbed to the surface. He invented the Bangberry Ride where we took “rides” on a long tree branch, and he fixed us a tire swing on a giant rope that hung from a branch twenty feet above our heads. After the tire fell off, he tied the rope into a massive knot so kids could swing out of the tree’s tall fork like Tarzan. He once scared a living room full of slumber party girls by coming out of the wood box next to our fireplace on his knees with Momma’s stocking over his face. He loved to surprise us!

When we became adults, he organized and paid for trips to Italy (one in Tuscany, another in Umbria). Dad never moved out of Eunice (until age 89) and ended up living in the home he grew up in: however, he and Mom traveled the globe when he worked for Southwestern Life: Hawaii, Japan, France, Germany, Greece, Bermuda.

He loved to go, go, go as much as he loved creating unexpected adventures. Driving home from a Carlsbad Cavern vacation, he stopped the car in west Texas on an empty stretch of highway and said, “Let’s climb that mountain!” Coming from the flat, flat south Louisiana area, the rocky hill of about 200 feet did seem mountainous. Emile, Gayle, Kelly and I followed Dad’s lead and scrambled up the rough terrain full of cacti, sticky shrubs, and sliding rocks. Only Emile made it to the top, and even he got nervous after someone pointed out a large snake between some rocks. Momma stayed at the car with Kelly who was too young to climb very far. With the snake alert Momma let out a terrified, “Oh! Merde!” grabbed Kelly and got inside the car despite the hot summer temperature. On our way down the hill Gayle jumped atop a huge flat rock and pronounced herself “King of the hill!”

Daddy took an immediate liking to that rock and said, “Let’s take this rock home! A souvenir!” We kids helped him dig around the base until he and Emile could free it and drag it back towards the car.

Forgetting the snake, Momma jumped out of the car to declare, “Reginald, what in the world are you doing?”

Emile and Dad were struggling to get a 140-pound rock into our trunk. Gayle and I had moved a suitcase and Mom’s vanity case to the backseat to give the rock room.

“Tete dure! We do not need that!” Mom said as we all ignored her.

That small boulder then lived in our backyard where we found lots of uses for it: a makeshift table for tea parties, a home base for hide-and-seek games, a cool resting spot for cats and dogs during summer, a place to sit and dig mud off the sides of your shoes, and a low pedestal for young imaginary royalty.

Dad’s spontaneous and fearless ideas often clashed with Momma’s anxious and reasonable thoughts. He could be short-tempered and loud and bossy, yet he never lost that spark of kid-like fun. He played tennis until his mid 80’s and he went to the casino past the age of 90. Always up for a game of cards, a new restaurant, or a road trip!

As parents, we do our best to give our kids as many good times as we can manage. Dad gave us vacations every summer: beaches, national parks, Six Flags, and Disney World. But my fondest memories are of playing in our own backyard. We were barefoot most of the time and always had a dog and some cats around. If a cousin came to visit, it felt cool to impress her with a unique form of fun. “Wanna get up on the roof?”

Then after Dad’s nap, if he was in a good mood, I’d tell him, “Gina wants to get on the roof, Daddy.”

And he’d stretch his long arms and look toward the kitchen where Mom was cleaning or cooking. He’d give us a conspiratorial wink and head toward the back yard. First, Dad would bend low to the ground and help me climb onto his shoulders with my legs dangling around his neck. Then he’d take my right hand and I’d put my right foot on his shoulder. Next he’d hold my weak left hand tightly and give me time to put my left foot on his shoulder. I clung to his extra-large hands with bated breath as he walked my shaking torso right next to the lowest spot of our roof. My more agile brother and sisters had already shimmied up the metal T.V. antenna pole right next to our wooden garage. Gayle lay flat on the roof and grabbed both of my arms as Dad put one huge palm under my butt and got all of me up on the roof. Gayle then smiled at our cousin’s big blue eyes as Gina considered the risks involved in our game.

“Come on, Gina! If I can do it, you know you can!” I said.

Soon five squealing kids were running like monkeys just let loose from a cage. My siblings were fearless and kept their hands in the air as they padded along the hot roof tiles, but I preferred the Mowgli walk. Gina took her time getting her “roof legs” screaming as she figured out if the game with no rules was worth the risk. As our bare feet got used to the rough surface, we all moved faster and squealed louder. The five pairs of small feet made padding noises with uneven rhythms because we all made short runs and sudden stops. Our heads told us we were as powerful and brave as eagles, but suddenly we’d hear a strident shout from the kitchen area below us.

“RE-GI-NALD!! Get those kids off the roof! MAINTENANT!”

Merci beaucoup, Daddy! For being an exciting instigator and a wonderful partner-in-crime!

Relationships

Daddy Was A Saver

Posted on August 22, 2020 by Nancy Malcolm

My daddy, J.C.Claughton, passed away eleven years ago today.

My Daddy was a “saver”. A procurer of particulars…a frugal forager. It was probably because he was a product of the Depression, but for whatever reason, if you needed ‘it’, he had it, at least one and an alternate.

When Daddy passed away we found boxes full of souvenirs, balls of twine, ink pens, jars of nails and business cards. We found his report cards, measuring tapes, hundreds of bank statements and thousands of photographs labeled neatly into chronological albums. There were boxes, bags and myriad other containers full of his mementos.

My brother and I waded through his things sometimes laughing …sometimes crying. Towards the end of our sorting, we bantered across to each other, “You take it!” “No, YOU take it!” Still, we filled large, black Hefty bags with things to give away or dispose of. His obsessive ‘saving’ wore us out. Sometimes, as we discarded, I whispered a prayer, “I’m sorry Daddy, we just have to let this go,” hoping he understood.

Last year I was going through a box of Daddy’s things that I had ‘saved’ from ten years ago. When I brought it home, I thought I would go through it right away. But, ten years had passed and I had just found the strength to open the box.

Inside were our report cards, Baptism announcements, college essays, school pictures and more. I found an old, faded manila envelope, sealed with a piece of tape and enclosed were letters and cards my brother and I had sent Daddy through the years; Father’s Day cards, poems, and notes we had written him. Behind those cards were letters tied with a string….our letters to Santa Claus.

I unfolded one pristine piece of notebook paper and I was transported, as I read my brother’s childish handwriting.

Dear Santa, I hope that I have been good enough to deserve these things I want. I would like a bulldog tank, an electric football game and a boy scout nap sack. My sister would like a jewelry box, a ballarena doll, a girl cowboy suit and play doe, please. From: Jimmy and Nancy. December 16, 1958

This letter was written one month before our mother passed away. Not all of our letters to Santa were saved, just this one and the ones the year after she died. My Dad wasn’t always good at professing his love. He wasn’t the sentimental, mushy type. But, after he was gone, I saw his tender side amongst the 14 retractable measuring tapes and boxes of Navy war memorabilia. The cards and notes his children had sent and letters to Santa obviously touched his heart, although we never knew it. His heart was inside this box that took me ten years to open. And, suddenly, all of this stuff he had ‘saved’, became a piece of him…a bridge to the other side, where he was standing, arms open wide, saying, “See? I have always loved you.” And finally my heart whispered back, “I know, Daddy. I love you, too.”