For My Father
Happy Father’s Day! As per SHERO protocol, we are taking this holiday Sunday off from the SHERO on Sunday Recap, but will resume normal posting next week. Today is not a day to work or read serious news…it is a day to reflect, be grateful and celebrate.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my own father, who passed away over 23 years ago. The summers are especially hard for me because they remind me of the summer months I would spend with my dad in Lincoln, Nebraska, after my parents divorced. The humidity, the fresh grass, the fireworks on the Fourth of July are all bittersweet memories of a man who left us much too soon. Here are a few of my favorite memories of Edward Baker, who was an amazing father, an even better teacher and a real mensch of a neighbor.
I was four years old and my mom was attempting to grow grass on the front lawn of our new, tiny house that my parents had just bought. There was an enormous pile of manure that had been delivered in our backyard so that my mom could begin seeding the lawn. In those days, even little kids could freely roam their neighborhoods and were left to “go play outside.” I ran a special little crew on my block, made up of several boys who were older than me, but were more than happy to take my orders and suggestions for where to find fun.
Apparently, I thought the huge pile was dirt, and it was meant for us all to bury each other and dig tunnels. I have no real memory of this event, but my mother loves to tell me the story. She says she came home from the grocery store one afternoon to me screaming at the top of my lungs. I was in the bath and my white hair had flecks of black all through it to the point where it looked like an infestation of sorts. My father was frantically scrubbing my head and muttering “so gross…EWWWW…you are so gross.”
My mom stood wide-eyed in the doorway and in a shocked voice said: “What happened?!”
“YOUR DAUGHTER,” began my father calmly, but intensely, “decided it was a grand idea to bury all of the neighborhood boys in manure — MANURE.”
My mom just stood there stunned and started laughing uncontrollably. She didn’t know what was funnier — my howling and my baby scowl or my Dad’s reaction to something he had allowed to happen through his lack of supervision. My mom had to go door to door later explaining that she had been gone and “Ed was in charge” and that’s why things got so out of hand.
I always loved the movies, but I would either go with my mom, who would save up for weeks and then make it a big deal at the concession stand, or my dad, who would take me to the movies at least twice a week all summer for the matinees on the pre-condition that I never ask for that “overpriced movie theater trash” that they sold. These were two very separate, very different upbringings in terms of movie going that extended well into other areas of their dichotomy parenting.
When I finally graduated from college after taking way too much time to do so, I told my parents that for my graduation present I wanted us all to go to the movies the next time my father came to Arizona to visit his parents. My dad usually refused to spend time with my mom — there were even a few times where she tried to surprise him when he would visit me, but he would somehow catch wind of her impending bomb operation and flee in my grandmother’s Trans Am with a firebird decal across the entire back window. Something about my dad’s juvenile fear of the physical presence of my mom, combined with the look of fear on his face and him speeding off in that crazy car still makes me laugh.
So, when my mom and dad both took me to the movies in the summer I was 24, I was in a childlike state of euphoria. My Dad waited patiently with his hands in his pockets as my mom filled her arms with candy and popcorn and even grinned when she told him, “See, Ed…this is how it’s done.” My parents had aged so differently. My dad never took care of himself. He smoked, drank and ate all the wrong things. This is why he died of a massive heart attack at the age of 51. He looked 20 years older than my mom that day and I was really worried.
We watched the movie Gladiator. Before the movie started we played the game where the first person says a US city and then the next person has to say another city that begins with the last letter of the word just said. This was a game my dad and I always played and that day, we all played it as a family for the first time. It was heaven and I will never forget that feeling.
Yesterday, something truly wonderful happened to me and it would have made the perfect Father’s Day gift for my dad. THE Mark Hamill commented on one of my tweets. For those of you who don’t know, Mark is a Twitter legend whose fame is only surpassed by that of Star Wars and his Luke Skywalker alter-ego. My Dad and I loved Star Wars and he took me to each summer opening of the films like it was the premier of the actual movie.
We saw Return of the Jedi 18 times the summer it was released and then would often watch the “holy” trilogy on VHS later. After my dad passed, my mom waited in line for fours hours in the Arizona sun after a root canal to get tickets to the first showing of Phantom Menace in order to carry on my father’s life work. I missed him so badly I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach, but I smiled and acted excited for my mother.
My first reaction upon seeing that comment from Mr. Hamill was this unbelievable longing to talk to my father. My dad did not show pride easily, he found it to be vain and tacky. “I wish I could call my dad,” I said out loud, to no one, and then I dialed his number from memory to make sure it was still out of service. Somehow that endless ring makes me feel like he could still pick up at any moment and it gives me a little solace in times like these.
But yesterday, he would have said, “Wow, kid — Mark, Hamill — that is REALLY something,” and I would have felt like I’d won the lottery. My dad would have left it at that, but he would have read all of my comments and basked in the Star Wars glory of it all. Instead I just indulge in that longing feeling, imagine the exchange and tear up a little. That will have to do.
For all of the fathers out there, or for those who do the work of fathers (like my mother), please know how cherished and valued you are. You may be disappointed at how slowly we do things or how gross some of the things we actually do are, but you keep us feeling safe in a world that makes us feel vulnerable every day. You may think that the steady, reliable father things you do are going unnoticed, but trust me, we all see you and need you more than you know. Have a beautiful day — you have earned it.
Amee Vanderpool writes the SHERO Newsletter, is an attorney, published author, contributor to newspapers and magazines, and an analyst for BBC radio. She can be reached at avanderpool@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @girlsreallyrule.
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Such a beautiful post, Amee. My dad died of a massive heart attack as we were sitting down to dinner three years ago. I still catch myself having moments where I think "I can't wait to tell Dad..." and then I remember. But it doesn't matter - I tell him anyway. And even though I can't hear his answer, I know he's there, listening to every word. Much like, I suspect, your dad is for you. 💜
I've had Ice T like several of my posts, but you are on another level.