This is a day of “celebration” for your dad, father, pop and dada, whatever you call yours. Folks buy cards, gifts and could celebrate the day with a poem or this is your life on CD. That’s the one thing I never had to do was decide what I was buying my father for father’s day. He just wasn’t around. I knew his name and remember seeing him when I was 8 years old but that was the extent of the “father daughter moment.”
I did reach out to him when I was 25 years old. I was at that stage in life where you are discovering who you really are and that “father” piece of my puzzle was missing. I ask could we communicate with a phone call but I got no response. And when I pushed the messenger for his phone number, I was told its best that I don’t contact him. What do you do with that? Well, I decided to declare myself a “fatherless daughter.” Damn Skippy!! I am a fatherless daughter and the only man that fathered me at all was my maternal grandfather. He was an expert father. After all, he was the father of 8 children.
My grandfather introduced me to religion. We were in church often enough for me to remember and we participated in enough Easter Sunday recitals to have obtained a bravery stance to public speaking. Also, he taught me to fight back and don’t run. Hit them back if they hit. I called him “dada” and he had the softest hair that he let me comb as he sat in his favorite chair. I can remember looking forward to hearing the Steel Mill whistle blow because I knew he would be coming up the hill towards home. And then life would get interesting.
My dada would be relaxing on the porch swing with me and I would tell him all that I knew. I was an adult when I learned that my interesting stuff I told my dada got other family members into trouble. They had secrets that they didn’t want my dada to know. But, now I realize how he listened to me as a child. He took the time when he didn’t have to. He died when I was 9 years old. I knew he loved me and cared for me. And yes, I’m sure he prayed for me.