Daddie

My relationship with my father was, to say the least, complicated. I inherited his personality and temperament along with his red hair. My parent's friends called me Little Red, insisting I was a carbon copy.
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As a baby - toddler-preschooler I could do no wrong. My Daddie was my hero and I was his baby girl. When ever my Mother would try to discipline me, Daddie would intervene, determined that I should always have my own way. He was proud of my "spunk", my "spirit". He thought my little tantrums were cute.
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I was born at the end of the depression, in 1933. My Dad worked for 20 cents an hour and we scrimped a lot, but we really didn't mind because everybody was pretty much in the same boat. We didn't have many luxuries, an orange in my Christmas stocking was a treasured prize. I tell you this so so you will understand the sacrifice my father made for me.
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As he was walking home from work one day, he walked past the Sassy Shop, a very swanky store for women and girls. He saw in the window, the most beautiful red silk dress. I was probably four or five years of age, but I still remember that dress. It was a stupid, impulsive thing for him to do, but he did it. He bought me that dress, for no reason, it wasn't Christmas or my birthday or even Easter. He just knew when he saw it that I had to have it. He made $1.60 a day, $8.00 a week, and he spent $10.00 for one dress for his daughter. I wrote a poem about it, titled, "The Red Silk Dress". It can be found in my earlier posts, in March.
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Time went by and suddenly I was a school girl, and this fact was supposed to miraculously transform me into an obedient, well mannered young lady. My hero father now expected me to put away childish things. Wrong! We clashed. My will was every bit as strong as was his. I demanded to have my own way, in the manner to which I had become accustomed. Experience had taught me that if I yelled loud enough, stamped my foot hard enough, pressed my point long enough, I would wear them down and get my own way. They would bow to my wished.
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Daddie and I fought daily, he would try to make me behave and I would stand my ground He would try to make me clean my plate and I refused, tried to get me to go to bed and I stamped my foot and said "NO!" I felt terribly abused and burdened by just having to live in the same house. When I was fourteen, I got my first job, packing cherries. We had to stand in one place by a conveyor belt and pack the first two layers uniformly, then fill the box with loose cherries. This meant constant twisting and swaying from side to side, contributing to sore muscles that weren't used to being exercised. I was so tired after my first day at work, that I went right to my room, flopped on top of my bed and slept until I was awakened by my father's angry voice. "That girl has got to learn that she is not the only person on earth, and that she owes courtesy to those around her!" I came out to find my parents at the dinner table, wondering where I had gone after work. Daddie was already mad; and it didn't take me long to catch up. I ruined dinner, and the evening, but I had my say.
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On June 1, 1079, we found out Daddie had a malignant brain tumor. It affected his balance, speech and vision. He lost tremendous amounts of weight. He fell down constantly and my 74 year old Mother couldn't lift him. I stopped by one afternoon to find he had fallen on the front porch and Mom was trying desperately to help him stand. I picked him up in my arms as though he were a child, and carried my own father into the house and put him on the sofa. Then I went outside and cried.
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For the remainder of the month , and into July, Daddie and I just sat and talked, had some wonderful conversations and I really enjoyed him for the first time since I had been a toddler.
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On July 5, we finally got a bed for him in a Nursing Home, right across the street from my house, so I visited him every day. By this time he was unable to talk much because of the pain medication, but he knew I was there.. On the 19th, I went to the hairdresser to get a perm. On the way home, I had to go to the bathroom so I planned on stopping in the house to take care of my business, then visit Daddie. As I got closer to home, something told me that the bathroom could wait, and I went directly to the Nursing Home.
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"We've been trying to reach you. Your father is dying," the nurse said as I entered the lobby. I walked to his room, he already looked dead, as though skin had been stretched over bones with nobody inside. I was the only family member present. My Mom had reluctantly agreed to go on an outing with her church ladies. I called my brother and he and my sister-in-law arrived too late. Daddie went before their arrival. Regretting all those hate filled years, I sat by his side and held his hand for his final moments on earth.