The Important Stuff
Growing up in my house came with challenges. First of all, we had hardly any money, ever. However, more significant than that, my mom was mentally ill. In a nutshell, some days were fantastic and happy and other days, not so much. On those happy days, my mother would have us oil painting on the front lawn or taking part in well-orchestrated art projects with our friends on the back picnic table from sunup to sundown. Those mania days were the best. Unfortunately, those occasions were few and far between. Most other days we knew it was best to get out of the house early and to spend the day elsewhere.
My mom passed away many years ago and I miss her terribly. I long for just one more long, lovely conversation. She had a knack for paying attention to detail, asking a million questions to draw out all your thoughts and feelings, and was never too busy to talk it out for hours. I know I have a lot of people who love me and listen to me, but none do it as deeply as my mom. She was the best listener ever, so as long as it was a good day. The most complicated thing about my mom was the inability to predict how the day was going to go; maybe it would be great, and maybe not. Looking back, waiting to see how each day would go was painful and exhausting.
The other moms in the neighborhood were, to put it bluntly, shitty. I never understood why these women thought I couldn’t comprehend their snarky, under-their-breath comments about my mom. Maybe their kids were easily confused, but I was wise to their motives. I understood their condescending and rude comments perfectly. They thought my mom was a bad parent and by proxy, my siblings and I were less than too. I hated them for that.
But then there was my dad. He was as solid and loving as a parent could be. There were never any worries about how the day was going to go if dad was home. He was completely predictable, happy, loving, protective, and fun.
In his day, my daddy was a four-sport, Division 1 athlete. He married right out of high school, commuted to his college and practice each day, and then went home to my mom each night. They had their first baby a year later and my dad had to drop out of college to work and support his family. Together they had six kids back to back. They truly couldn’t afford any of us financially, and with each new baby my mom struggled a little bit more.
My father was the epitome of predictable. He lived for us each and every day without fail. He never wavered. I think it was important to him to provide as much stability as he could for his kids. We wore clean clothes, our homework was always done and checked, and we never went to bed hungry. Most days we had the basics in our fridge and on the dinner table, and far too often my dad would say he wasn’t hungry for dinner because he had a big lunch. It was years before I realized the sacrifice of this simple act of going without to feed his kids.
Payday Fridays were the best. Dad was paid twice a month and on those Fridays we excitedly waited for him to come home. On those days, he would pack us into the station wagon and whisk us off to Farmer Jack's grocery store. We quietly followed him down each aisle as he made careful choices so the food would last to the next payday. We never asked for much, we just patiently waited. We could barely contain our excitement, because on those trips to the grocery store, not only did we get to fill our fridge and pantry with groceries, but on those special days dad let us get treats. The treats were always the same thing: Faygo Pop, ice cream to make floats, and chips and dip. It was pure heaven!
We would bring the bounty home and dad wouldn’t let us touch it until just the right time. Dad made us eat dinner, shower, clean up, get into our jammies, and snuggle up on the couch. Then it was time! We would stuff ourselves on the feast and watch hours of Friday night 70’s TV. We didn’t have much at our house but we were so rich in love. On payday Fridays I felt like the luckiest and most loved little girl in the world.
My dad was a gentle but strong parent. He never spanked us and I don’t recall him yelling at us very much either. There was no need to because we lived to make him proud. A sideways glance from my dad in public would stop us in our tracks, take our breath away, and was all that we needed to get right back on the straight and narrow.
This month my dad turns 93 yrs old. He proudly boasts about his newest grandchild, number 65, Lennie.” You read that correctly, he just had his 65th grandchild, He proudly displays each grandchild in a 5x7 frame on his living room wall. The pictures run side by side, ceiling to floor, and now wrap around to a new wall. He is very proud of each of those kids, knows every single name and thorough details about each of them. My father knows what life’s blessings are and he is extremely thankful for all of them.
My dad is a shining example of how to live your later years. He owns his own home, travels, gardens, builds furniture, and volunteers. He golfs in a weekly league, is our Mr. Fix it, and still is as predictable and loving as he was decades ago. He still spends his days with his family, having fun, and helping others. My father taught me to never waste a minute of today looking for perfection or fame or money. He taught us to just simply look to your family and never lose sight of the important stuff.
As a side note, in the few days it took to write this post my dad had his 66th grandchild, no kidding, and this little darling is named Donald, after my wonderful daddy. Truly blessed!
