It hit me today that I have written about my Mom, Nana and Grandperé.
Yes, I had a Dad. If God ever made a "piece of work" it was him.
His Mother spoiled him and carried the shovel behind his indiscretions. His Dad, a "saint" was in the home, but his Mother ruled the roost when it came to her son.
I know Dad loved my Mom. From that union, I popped up. His Mother never accepted my Mom or me until weeks before her death. She begged to see us before she died. We visited her in her last days. I bellowed my anger for days before Mom drug me to visit her. It had been years since either had seen her. Without her in our lives, we were happy.
My Nana had a nice chat with me about going to see "his Mom". I was on my best behavior. I could not embarrass my Nana.
His Mom's body was skin and bones and her embrace of me were icicles. I never hugged her back. I remembered her meaness.
Her life had been racist and xenophobic. As a "widdle kid", I knew "his Mother" hated Mom and me. We were treated as such. My Grandfather never knew how she mistreated me.
Daddy was Hollywood handsome. He knew it and all the women he met knew it. Yes, "she's" behind him with the shovel.
Married or not, the USA was his playground and "She" had the shovel. Dad had a blast no matter where he was. He was the life of everyone's party, except Mom's.
Mom chose to let him party on. She packed her firearms away and made sure he got a set of legal papers. Trust me he partied on even more!
Dad was one of the book-smartest people I ever met. Mom always told me he was smart. She was brilliant in her own right. Years later, he'd surprise us and pop in for a day and disappear for years. The "shovel bearer" always knew his location. That was decades before cell phones and GPS.
Once I was about thirteen years old and visiting an elder friend in Brooklyn, NY without Mom. Yes, a tree grows in Brooklyn because she had a beautiful one in front of her five story brownstone.
I passed a man on the landing at the second floor. I continued to my room on the third. I was up a few steps and he called me by name. I stopped and asked, "Who are you?" My thoughts were my hostess had told her family that I was there with my Aunt [his sister] who was also visiting. Mom wanted me to see my Aunt who taught me to read and write at two years of age. That's how I got to the City without Mom on non-stop transportation.
He started to cry. I looked at him as a New York "nut". He asked me if I knew him I said, "No" and continued up the stairs. He called to me again and said, "I'm your Daddy". I turned, went back to the landing to get a good look at him. I did not recognize him. Little kids don't always remember. There were no photos of him in our home.
He hugged me and my Aunt came from someplace and joined in the hug. Before I knew it we were all sitting downstairs in the hostess's living room that was so elegant. I remember the room more than the conversation. The living room filled up. Everyone was happy to see me with my Dad.
That was a surprise from my Aunt. I never asked Mom if she was in on that "surprise". She may not have let me out of Boston. She was so protective, today she'd be called a "hover Mom".
My Aunt was working on her Masters Degree in New York and Dad came to the City to drive her back to her home. He always had a nice auto by virtue of his brillance in the now defunct American auto industry.
After Mom died, Dad took interest in my welfare. I was engaged to a fabulous man. Mother dropped dead on her way to the caterer's office. Dad came to Boston for "Mom's" wedding. It was over the top! She wanted it to be the talk of Boston. It was because of her death. Had she lived I believe it still would have been the talk of the town.
Dad loved my Darling. My husband was the only person I know that could "advise" my Dad and he'd listen without an argument.
My husband's death ripped my Dad apart. We knew Darling was in Japan. Not so. He came back to the USA from Vietnam sealed in a glass top coffin.
Dad was my protector for weeks. His sister and husband and a maternal grandaunt drove us from Arlington National Cemetery to our respective residences in the North.
On one of my visits to Dad's, he had retired from work but on occasion would advise repair shops and dealerships in the area. I saw with my own eyes, a repair shop owner stop by with new replacement parts for a truck. The parts would not fit properly. Dad checked the box the parts were in, found and read the enclosures. Then, Dad took a brown grocery bag, grabbed a pencil and I saw him figure the angles using sines and co-sines. Then on the other side of the bag he sketched the pieces and how to cut them to fit. He handed the bag to the shop owner. The man said "Thanks". Dad said, "See ya".
I'm happy that I'm an "archivist" aka paper pack-rat. I have every note or card Dad sent after I became a widow. This is the second decade that he has died. The woman he married has yet to tell me he no longer lives. I have left that to the Great Spirit and her soul. Needless to say, I was not at his funeral. On the telephone a friend read his obituary to me from her newspaper the day before his funeral. She'd seen him a number of times and of course knew his name. His photo was there. It was the portrait I'd paid for on one of his visits to me.
Last year, I drove I-95 and made it my point to visit his grave.
Dad and I had a relationship apart from the rest of his family. We had our chats via telephone almost daily. We'd fuss and fight and NO ONE had better get in our way. That was our thing.
His last chat with me was a lie about a matter. It took me only minutes to learn the truth. He should have known never to lie to me. I'm a better lie detector than Mom ever was. I've too many friends and had telephones at my disposal.
His mortal remains are in a nice place. His marker is tasteless. But then, he had another wife.
So now you know, I had a Dad. I'll probably never write about him again.
Patricia Barbee 2009
Patricia began writing in the fifth grade, and in high school she was on the school newspaper staff. Patricia has been a free lance reporter for a number of East coast periodicals. She is a contributing author to Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul. Patricia is the author of two "historical fiction" novels, "Every Shut Isn't Asleep" and "Dust on the Shoes".
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