168/365: Fathers Be Good to Your Daughters

My dad worked hard everyday of his life up until the day he retired a few years ago. He never took a vacation. I mean a real vacation. He was a house painter when I was little. I grew up seeing my dad in white painter’s overalls walking on stilts to reach the high parts of walls. You know how grown ups seem so big when you’re little? Imagine a 6 foot bear of a man on stilts. He worked from before school in the morning until dinner time and sometimes he had a side job after that. He often had side jobs on weekends.

My dad didn’t have free time. He hunted a little. He fished with my grandfather. He worked to give us everything we needed. When I was in middle school my dad became a truck driver. We got to hear about different parts of the country, which was pretty neat. He bought me turquoise earrings from the southwest. My dad worked hard. Once he built me a bird house and we painted it together. Besides our MANY trips to Hamel’s Amusement Park, the birdhouse was my favorite Dad memory. He loved us. He loves me. He loves my lasagna. Now he texts. He always ends a text with “love you.”

My dad’s dad, Pappaw Branton, lived next door to us growing up. I loved my Pappaw. He was a house painter like my dad and I rarely saw him wearing something other than his coveralls. He was a hard working man. He gave my grandmother anything she wanted. She had big shiny cars and a fur and I thought she was glamorous. My grandfather and I had a special relationship. I would go over to their house after school and he would tell me to get him a beer from the fridge and “honey, get me a Twinkie — you know where they are.” He kept his Twinkie stash in his dresser. I have that dresser now in my giant closet, but there are no baked goods in it. He grew tomatoes and peppers. I would help pick them. He listened to old country music on KRMD. He died much too young at 59. He had four daughters and my dad. They adored him and he would do anything for them. I don’t really remember his relatives, but he tolerated my grandmother’s seemingly endless number of brothers, sisters, or “people” as we say in the south. He had a great laugh and he liked having all of us around. He was fun. I loved him.

The last father I’m writing about today is my Pappaw Glenn. I wrote about him two years ago when he passed away, but that post was from a place of sorrow. This is celebration. Pappaw Glenn was amazing. I wish my other Pappaw had lived longer so I would have been able to spend the time I did with him like I did with my Pappaw Glenn. He called me “Girl” most of the time. I spent the night at their house a lot growing up and we always, always had ice cream at 8 o’clock (which he continued to do until he died. He actually asked me for ice cream while he was dying in the hospital and I obliged). We always watched Looney Tunes on Saturday mornings and The Road Runner was his favorite. My Pappaw Glenn had been a fireman and I’ve always admired that. He had great hair. We always went to church and he would stand for hymns, but never sang. Once I asked how often they moved when he was a kid and he said “every time the rent was due.” I’m sure he was picking with me, as he did that a lot. He had a garage and a storage room full of every tool and odd and end you could imagine. He “piddled,” as my grandmother put it, in the garage all the time. Fixing something or trying to fashion something to solve whatever he thought needed solving. I promise he worked on the gutters on their house for 20 years. He had a great smile. He loved big.

I hope you, Dear Reader, have at least one great dad or father figure in your life. I’ve had three. And I wouldn’t trade them for anything.