Every time I look through the lens of my cameras to take pictures of families today, I know I'm never going to capture an image this perfect. My mom photographed this moment, and every single detail of it is an accurate representation of my relationship with Dad from the day I was born until the day he died. I was a lucky kid to grow up in a house that always had a camera ready to work. This photograph was taken on Christmas Eve, and I'm sure the camera was sitting on the kitchen counter within reach of a my mom while she watched me put Dad in his place...again.
My five year old memory wants to believe I started my rant on the floor beside him. I assume, I probably climbed up on the couch to look through the curtains to see who was waiting outside for him. I also assume I had no idea that I was risking life and limb for (a) climbing on furniture and (b) doing so with my shoes on. Never being an aspiring cheerleader, I assume my hands are in fists on my hips because I had seen such a pose on television as Florence from The Jefferson's was one of my all time favorite television characters, and she often struck a similar pose when she was mad at George. Regardless, it was Christmas Eve, and he was leaving, and I was pretending to be mad, but let's face it, I was nosey and apparently not getting the results I thought I had the audacity to demand. I love the way he's casually guarding the door, too. Even then, he knew I might "bust" loose.
I don't write a lot about him. I don't post a lot of photos of him. When I stroll through Facebook and see pictures of adult children hanging out with their dads, I admit; I feel a tug at my heart like a blue gill after a cricket. Then, I snap out of it and wonder,"What in the world I am thinking?" Nothing about him was easy, but every single thing about him was memorable and noteworthy.
My dad's greatest gifts to me have nothing to do with flea market finds, snakeskin boots, an endless supply of batteries and film for my cameras (which I miss super much), razor blades in bulk, Disney movies, Barbies, video games, carefully selected jewelry, car stereos, clothes, art, or collectibles. My dad's greatest gifts to me were the letters he wrote to me from prison.
I'm writing this because I teach a lot of students whose parents are either in our county jail, another county's jail or in federal prison today on Father's Day, and maybe this will reach one of them who might be sad or feeling left out.
One student in particular recently found him or herself especially burdened with understanding the concept of an incarcerated parent, and fell to pieces on me after I had the nerve to ask the student for an explanation as to why that child couldn't stay awake in class. After I got an answer that cut me so deep it reached my early childhood within seconds, I decided it was time to tell that student my story in the company of trained colleagues and explain how letters from prison helped me become a teacher. It is a decision I will never ever regret. In that moment, I became human to the student. In that moment, the student realized a parent in prison doesn't give a child a crutch for underachievement as a consolation prize.
While I was jovially entranced with kindergarten and first grade, the head count in our home dropped from three to two for quite a long time. My dad was convicted of conspiracy (fancy word for bootlegging) and he was sent to federal prison as a result. Not his best decision as an employee of law enforcement. I could spend a lot of time explaining the technicalities of that case, but there's only one detail that truly matters. He had no idea at the time, but taking the time to write me letters from prison is the best gift my dad ever gave me.
That is my first memory of learning that written words can become gifts. That is my first memory of the importance of a mailman - or mail woman. That is my first memory of holding my mom's hands while we walked up the marble stairs of the Middlesboro post office to go inside and see Mr. Massengill and Ed Herrell and buy more stamps, so she and I could write letters to Dad, too. The memories from letters that those military style white post office jeeps picked up from and delivered to our house are the inspiration that drives me today to encourage children to write from their hearts while sparing them my life's details en masse.
The letters are not in a nice pile with pink ribbons wrapped around them today. They're not carefully stashed away so I can pull them out and read them when I'm having a pity party for one. The letters are gone. Nothing tangible remains from the years he was in prison because perhaps he thought if the stuff was gone, the memories would leave, too. No such luck. The memories are here. For me, they are not all bad. For him, I'm sure they redefined damages.
I read the letters so often as a kid; I have them committed to memory today. I remember him writing about walking me down the "isle," which indicated he had planned to maybe take me to Beach Island on Norris Lake; I guess. I remember telling him he should have said, "aisle." Had he written "aisle," he would have been on a mission to go to A & P and get some peanut butter; I'm sure. I remember him refusing to write a capital pronoun I. His i's were always lower cased, and that made me break out a red crayon and correct his errors. Without knowing he had done so, he became my first language arts student as I read and graded each letter he ever mailed me. I'm thankful I have those memories of letters from my dad.
I've been his daughter without him here for a dozen years now, and the older I get, the more I look like him. When I was young, I was terrified I'd end up being his size. He was afraid of it, too. We both tried to be on diets together one right after the next, and we were really good while we were actually together. But as soon as we got away from each other, he broke out the JIF and I headed straight for Clancy's. In the end of his life, he'd tell me, " They've cut out over half my innards and I've got cancer, and I still can't be skinny." I always told him God would never let me be skinny because I would dress like a tramp. Then Dad would remind me that Dolly Parton always said it cost a lot of money to look cheap. We'd laugh until we ached, and I'd always leave with him saying, "Just stay where I can talk to you."
He has especially been on my mind because I got pulled over last week by blue lights in my rear view mirror. When asked if I knew why I had been stopped, I said I must have been speeding. Nope. Further proof the only thing I do fast is eat. The officer informed me that my music was too loud. Windows were up, roof was up, I was pretty tightly sealed in my bug. There wasn't another vehicle in sight at 9:50 p.m. on a Thursday night in a small town not to be named. I'm a 41 year old fat woman in a Volkswagen Beetle who got stopped for playing loud music on a four lane highway. I learned a violation of this section is a Class C misdemeanor punishable by a fine only of up to fifty dollars ($50.00). The officer let me go with a verbal warning. As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot, I thought, "Oh, how I wish I could call my dad." I wanted to talk to him so badly I felt like my chest was going to burst.
But if you're wondering what I was listening to when I stood accused of my horrible crime of getting my groove on, here are the lyrics,
"Aren't you somethin' to admire, cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror -
And I can't help but notice, you reflect in this heart of mine -
If you ever feel alone and the glare makes me hard to find -
Just know that I'm always parallel on the other side."
Justin Timberlake did not pen those lyrics about a father and a daughter; I'm quite sure of it. But every day when I wobble down the hall, I brush my teeth, and I look in the mirror...there is no doubt who's looking back at me.
That's why I will always have a Happy Father's Day.
