Daddy

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg

Daddy was a large man whose crusty work-boots tracked red mud onto mother’s carpets.

He wore glasses…big ones…with thick black frames. And white t-shirts…

He played football in high school, but tennis courts paved his way to college.

When I was very young, he bowled.

By the time I graduated high school he had traded balls with holes for holes-in-one.

My mother called him “Johnny”, my Aunt calls him “Brother”, and my sisters and I call him “Daddy”. I was forty years old before I heard anyone else call him anything other than “Mister Howell”. Years later it still sounds strange, and just a little disrespectful, to hear anyone besides my mother call him “Johnny”.

Daddy liked to eat. As kids, he introduced us to souse meat and lox-n-bagels, but I drew the line at pickled pig’s feet. Time spent in Korea after Hiroshima expanded his pallet. If he was really, really good, Mom would scramble last night’s fried fish into his eggs.

These days he prefers his fish raw, but little else has changed. Daddy still loves to eat. He finds a way to fit three meals in between the hours of 8 am and 4 pm every day, arriving back at his condominium-by-the-sea before most vacationers have even considered making reservations.

Daddy said things…like, “Don’t ever forget who you are! You’re a Howell!” and “No one is better than you are!”. The manner in which he spoke discouraged questions while imparting pride.

He also said, “Your thighs are big-around as my waist!”, and “You need to leave that boy alone. He’s a queer!”, and “Blacks just naturally run faster than whites. It comes from being chased through the jungle by cheetahs.”

A few years ago, he read every book Carlos Castaneda ever wrote.

Last weekend he took great delight in expounding on his latest theory on consciousness. “Our brains are like radio receivers…”

As a kid, it wasn’t Christmas until Daddy came home. Every Christmas Eve, sometime after 6 and before 9, he stumbled across the threshold, over-sized shopping bags in tow. Mother’s mouth set into a sharp line, as her hands moved ever faster over the food she was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.

“Put these things under the tree!”, he slurred. Professionally wrapped packages hiding expensive perfume, and too-red, too-small, lacy lingerie were tossed, haphazardly, under the tree. Daddy was home! We could open presents!

It’s still not Christmas until Daddy arrives…only Mom isn’t in the kitchen…and it’s the Sunday before Christmas…and my sister dresses her Dachshunds in elf costumes…and sometimes we watch football.

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Just as we have for the last five Father’s Days, we’ll meet at The Varsity. Daddy will order two all-the-way-dogs, rings, and a coke. At least three of us will vie for the honor of paying his bill. Odds are, my sister will do it. We’ll find four or five unoccupied tables and we’ll push them together. We’ll create our space, just as several other families have done before us. We’ll eat, we’ll talk, we’ll laugh. I’ll take pictures despite my sisters’ protestations. Daddy will open presents, and we’ll go home.

I’ll leave, hoping we can do it again, next year.

Category: Daddy

Blame Game