No daddy is perfect. Mine certainly wasn’t. Still isn’t. But
good. My daddy has always been a really good man. And as Flannery O’Conner
always said, “A Good Man is Hard to Find.”
Truth is I spent a large portion of my childhood being
afraid of him. More specifically, afraid of his popping black belt. It took me
to adulthood to realize that he was only doing what he believed was the right
thing to do. If there is anything both my parents held in highest esteem, it
was doing the right thing. It’s something that was firmly instilled in all of
their children.
I also spent most of my lifetime thinking my parents didn’t
like each other very much. It was not until my mother began her excruciatingly
slow path into the emptiness of Alzheimer’s that I began to understand their
deep and complicated relationship. They really had very little in common..
music, children and their religious faith. It didn’t seem enough to me, but it
lasted them sixty-one years of marriage. And I finally realized that those
numerous arguments were because they were still talking and reaching out to one
another. They still cared… deeply.
If I had only a single word to describe my daddy, it would
be generous. No one raised by Mom Fowler could be anything but thrifty, and he
was definitely that. But while he would pinch every penny for himself, he was
always giving to someone in need… and mostly in a low key, humble way. He liked
to be thanked, but not praised. Kerry and I, and all of our children have had a
much more materially blessed life because of the generosity of my daddy; and I
am deeply grateful for that. But I am more grateful for the example of
generosity and generous spirit that he passed on to me and to my children.
Thrifty and generous are not oxymoronic terms. They can exist together, and my
daddy taught me how.
In spite of his gruff exterior (His first grandchild was
terrified of him.), he is such a tender-hearted person. He growls when he feels
like crying because he was raised to think men don’t cry. His own mama asked
him if he was a crybaby on his sixtieth birthday when he got choked up about
the love shown to him by his closest friends and family. In these last days
when his true self shows through, his tender-heartedness has been harder to
disguise. He cries when he is shown tenderness, or kindness, or when he thinks
of what he has lost.
My daddy is a people person. He has a million friends who
love him and are loved by him. I think it’s his sweetness and his smile and his
genuine interest in everything around him. He and my mama did training union on
Sunday nights for years and all the children loved him. I resented the fact
that we always missed Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color and Bonanza, but
who can count the number of lives they blessed on those Sunday nights. And they
always participated in the fun stuff at church camps and retreats. When it
comes to having a good time, my daddy never really outgrew his childhood self.
I just found out that recently that my daddy played center
field for Furman. “I had to quit when I got married,” he told me. I knew his
own daddy was a sports fanatic. I also was reminded recently that he coached a
basketball team in the textile league to the championship back when the textile
league was like a minor league sport. Nothing gave him more pleasure than when
Jonathan played high school sports. That last blessing child gave him a lot of
joy with their shared athleticism. And then came the grandchildren that allowed
him more proud times in the stands. But what I remember most about my daddy’s
athleticism was his ability well into later adulthood to stand on the dock,
holler “Pull!” and jump off on his slalom ski and go around the lake and back
and never get more than his feet wet. What a man!
His real strength, both mental and physical, came when my
mama began her slow dance with dementia. Two broken hips and a broken femur
joined her feeble mind and still my daddy cared for her at home and saw to her
every physical need. This was the same man who did nothing for a sick child of
his own... That was the mother’s job. But he crossed all kinds of barriers to
be her faithful husband. He once told me he didn’t think he could do it… but he
did. He reached within himself and found a strength he didn’t know he
possessed. And when she finally did have to go into institutional care, he fed
her every night after work and lifted her from the wheelchair to her bed. The
last thing she lost to Alzheimer’s was the way her face lit up at the sight of
him. I’m so thankful that she left us shortly after that happened. That was not
something my daddy had the strength to face.
So you see, my daddy is not perfect. No one is. But he has
been such a good man all his life. No words can really express how thankful I
am to have had him as my daddy on this Father’s Day. So I offer these imperfect
ones.
I love my daddy.
