Father’s Day

My dad died in May 1986. It was a few weeks before Father’s Day and the only thing I remember is that my family cried a great deal that day when we all gathered for lunch with my mom.

Up until then, I lost grandfathers and a grandmother, but nothing prepared me for the empty place in my heart left by my dad. Even after all these years, I find myself feeling melancholy at the loss.  But my father left me things that Icling to.

He felt at home in work pants.  I’m not sure if he got married in overalls, but he wore them in the only surviving picture from their wedding day. Whenever he had a job to do around the house, he’d zip into his coveralls, put his work gloves in his back pocket and get after it.

When our family was young, feeding the wife and kids took most of the money, so if the car broke down, he fixed it. I remember him tapping a cigarette from the pack, and opening the top of his Zippo lighter using the leg of his overalls. He would lean his head to one side, flick the flint wheel with his thumb and light the cigarette. Opening the hood, he would study the motor as if it were an ancient text. After a while, he’d say, “I think I can fix this.” 

When old enough, I became his designated helper. I held flashlights, fetched tools and kept a cold glass of iced tea within his reach. He didn’t consider himself a mechanic, but when something broke, he’d say, “It ain’t going to fix itself.” And more often than not, he fixed the problem.

In the early 1960s, my folks scrimped and saved enough to buy a Jim Walter shell home. After the sound of knocking hammers and hacking handsaws faded, my dad’swork began. 

My brother and I helped him wire the house, install light fixtures, hang Sheetrock and install the plumbing. That house kept the family warm and dry for years. I think he coined the phrase, “Just do it,” years before Nike trademarked the concept. That’s something my dad taught me that has served me well through the years.

The relationship between my father and me was rocky after I returned from the Army. I grew tired of people wearing green telling me to cut my hair, so when I returned home after my service in 1973, I decided to go with the flow and let my hair grow. My dad had a problem with that. I was young, stupid and stubborn. I got the stubborn part from him, so our relationship suffered. 

During that time when he didn’t say much to me, he still talked to Jilda. He adored her.

After a few years, I think we both grew weary of holding on to the anger. Afterward, it was as if we’d never had a harsh word between us.

This morning after our first cup of coffee, I heard Jilda’s car keys jingling, and I realized she had an early morning session at work today. She called over her shoulder as she walked out the door, “The fan in the bedroom is making a funny noise.”

I poured my second cup of coffee and went into the bedroom.  I sat and sipped for a long while looking at the fan before saying to myself, “I think I canfix this.”

Happy Father’s Day.

Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book, “Life Changes,” is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at rick@homefolkmedia.com.