By Monica Sharpe
I could hardly wait until Daddy got home from work. Soon as my mother started to prepare dinner, I patiently waited, looking out the picture window when it was cold or rainy, or I sat on the front porch when it was warm. No matter how tired he was after working, he was never too tired to dance our special little jig that ended in a dramatic twirl.
The tall tales and bedtime stories he told were of heroes, princesses, and knights in shining armor. Ali Baba…fly away birds and string tricks…and falling asleep in his arms. I loved to snap rubberbands at the newspaper he read just to see him flinch. He never got mad until the time came I shot a bigger rubberband a little harder through a single sheet of newsprint…he was a little upset and the incident still makes me smile.
Today my Dad is celebrated for the familiar; he was a man who raised his family with strong Christian beliefs. He loved God and his country. And he is celebrated for the self-evident life-lesson anecdotes; like the less than subtle screening of potential boyfriends, building things, fixing broken toys, and mending my broken heart. These are the things he did. It’s the essence of what made him my Dad. Fundamental to his lifeblood, these idiosyncrasies became intrinsic me.
I have memories I can recall at a whim. Dad’s love of the north country where he was born, his love of baseball, apple pie, a good cup of coffee, and a tall neck bottle of beer with his famous Sunday hamburgers. He was my biggest fan when I learned to cook and because of his patience, I believe it’s why I have a love of the culinary arts.
I’m a carpenter’s daughter. I saw a man whose choice of profession was shaped by his commitment to family. He taught me about wood and nature, and the cycle of life. I am captivated by the smell of freshly cut wood. I remember unsuccessfully trying to make sawdust castles from the piles of sawdust that accumulated beneath his tablesaw. I laid in it and I played in it. For me there is little, if anything, more intrinsically masculine than the sweet scent of wood and varnish.
My Dad was my first glimpse into the strange but true world of men and boys. Perhaps he wasn’t the first one I ran to with a scraped knee, but he was the first man I ever truly admired. He did masculine things with gusto and bravado. Everything seemed somewhat bigger with Dad and more certain was his handshake, his opinion, and his convictions.
My memories live in the raw, pure unadulterated love of a child, uncomplicated with growth and change. The “real men are” list I fell heir to was Dad’s ultimate act of inadvertent philanthropy. And while my list is specific to me, I imagine that the more things change the more they stay the same. Our relationship was intangible, uncomplicated, and critical. I imagine that as daughters we all inherit a list and that as girls we are influenced by it.
My Dad was kind, forgiving, and tougher than any friend would risk being. He was clear and never resorted to aggression or humiliation. His underlying tone was warm even when he set boundaries. My Dad taught me to be a cooperative member of my family, to keep agreements, and treat others with respect, to be thoughtful and to help with household tasks. He was my friend and he treated me with respect and dignity. He liked me for who I was. He didn’t criticize, nor did he make any negative or derogatory remarks. He took time to listen to my side of the story. Security came from knowing the boundaries he set were firm and could not be manipulated.
The lessons I learned from my Dad were the ones he never actively tried to teach me. I realized with all his imperfections, my Dad was still one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. He showed me he was human when he showed emotion. Was he perfect…no he was not. But he had a depth of wisdom and experience that can never be denied. His life was an example of selflessness that has never left me.
I was twenty-three when I lost my Dad. He died of a heart attack in January 1978 during the snowstorm of the century. One month before on Christmas Eve, he gave me one final gift. It was the single most memorable gift I ever asked for.
My Mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I told her I only wanted words. She was bewildered when I told her I wanted my Dad to tell me he loved me, nothing more. The words, “I Love You,” were not freely used with my siblings and me as they are in our homes now. And not once, in all my entire life had I ever doubted he didn’t love me. I only needed to hear the words from him…
With the day’s festivities nearly over, everyone went into the living room to exchange gifts. It was out of character for my Dad to stay behind in the kitchen with me. He complimented me on the effort I made to make this a special holiday for them. He told me how proud he was of me and what a good mother he thought I had become. He gave me a hug and whispered, “I love you, Snicklefritz.” I cried tears of joy when I heard the words I longed to hear. It was the third time I saw tears in my Dad’s eyes. They were tears of validation.
My Dad evokes some of my fondest memories. I know that daughters need their dads in ways that dads will never fully comprehend. More than likely, dads need their daughters in a beautiful dance of synchronous reciprocity.
Raymond J. LaRocque
1907-1978
This picture of my Dad and me was taken five months before he passed.
