Daddy

Daddy was a large man whose crusty work-boots tracked red mud onto mother’s carpets.

He wore glasses…big ones…with thick black frames.  And white t-shirts…

He played football in high school, but tennis courts paved his way to college.

When I was very young, he bowled.  

By the time I graduated high school he had traded balls with holes for holes-in-one.

My mother called him “Johnny”, my Aunt calls him “Brother”, and my sisters and I call him “Daddy”.  I was forty years old before I heard anyone else call him anything other than “Mister Howell”.  Years later it still sounds strange, and just a little disrespectful, to hear anyone besides my mother call him “Johnny”.

Daddy liked to eat.  As kids, he introduced us to souse meat and lox-n-bagels, but I drew the line at pickled pig’s feet.  Time spent in Korea after Hiroshima expanded his pallet.  If he was really, really good, Mom would scramble last night’s fried fish into his eggs.  

These days he prefers his fish raw, but little else has changed.  Daddy still loves to eat.  He finds a way to fit three meals in between the hours of 8 am and 4 pm every day, arriving back at his condominium-by-the-sea before most vacationers have even considered making reservations.

Daddy said things…like, “Don’t ever forget who you are!  You’re a Howell!” and “No one is better than you are!”.  The manner in which he spoke discouraged questions while imparting pride.

He also said, “Your thighs are big-around as my waist!”, and “You need to leave that boy alone.  He’s a queer!”, and “Blacks just naturally run faster than whites.  It comes from being chased through the jungle by cheetahs.”

A few years ago, he read every book Carlos Castaneda ever wrote.

Last weekend he took great delight in expounding on his latest theory on consciousness.  “Our brains are like radio receivers…”

As a kid, it wasn’t Christmas until Daddy came home.  Every Christmas Eve, sometime after 6 and before 9, he stumbled across the threshold, over-sized shopping bags in tow.  Mother’s mouth set into a sharp line, as her hands moved ever faster over the food she was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.  

“Put these things under the tree!”, he slurred.  Professionally wrapped packages hiding expensive perfume, and too-red, too-small, lacy lingerie were tossed, haphazardly, under the tree.  Daddy was home!  We could open presents!

It’s still not Christmas until Daddy arrives…only Mom isn’t in the kitchen…and it’s the Sunday before Christmas…and my sister dresses her Dachshunds in elf costumes…and sometimes we watch football. 

Sunday is Father’s Day. 

 Just as we have for the last five Father’s Days, we’ll meet at The Varsity.  Daddy will order two all-the-way-dogs, rings, and a coke.  At least three of us will vie for the honor of paying his bill.  Odds are, my sister will do it.  We’ll find four or five unoccupied tables and we’ll push them together.  We’ll  create our space, just as several other families have done before us.  We’ll eat, we’ll talk, we’ll laugh.  I’ll take pictures despite my sisters’ protestations.  Daddy will open presents, and we’ll go home.

I’ll leave, hoping we can do it again, next year.

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