The Daddy Doll

On this Father’s Day, I’m thinking a lot about my Daddy. He died many years ago, but I still think about him all the time. My childhood memories of him are somewhat hazy. You see, in the 1950s (when I grew up) my Daddy was building an electrical contracting business. He wasn’t around a lot, because he was trying to bring home the bacon. God knows I wanted him to bring bacon! In most of my earliest memories, my father is in his underdrawers, resting after a busy week. Though he wasn’t present except at night and on weekends, we knew he loved us.

When I was a teenager, his business was booming so he was around more often, but I didn’t appreciate it much. He was often fussing at me, because I was … well … a teenager. He griped and complained, but I knew he loved us. I appreciated just exactly how much he loved me when he wore his teeth for my wedding! He despised those false teeth, but he was a handsome man with them, don’t you think?

Yesterday, at a garage sale, I saw a book, by Erma Bombeck, called Family: The Ties That Bind … And Gag!. Because I love her sense of humor, I was willing to shell out fifty cents for the book. When I opened it, I read passages about her father and stepfather that stopped me in my tracks. For many people of her generation (and mine) these words might ring true.

Her memories of her father stopped in 1936, when Erma would have been about nine years old. Here is what she said:

One morning my father didn’t get up and go to work. He went to the hospital and died the next day.

I hadn’t thought that much about him before. He was just someone who left and came home and seemed glad to see everyone at night. He opened the jar of pickles when no one else could. He was the only one in the house who wasn’t afraid to go into the basement by himself.

He cut himself shaving, but no one kissed it or got excited about it. It was understood when it rained, he got the car and brought it around to the door. When anyone was sick, he went out to get the prescription filled. He took lots of pictures … but he was never in them.

Whenever I played house, the mother doll had a lot to do. I never knew what to do with the daddy doll, so I had him say, “I’m going off to work now” and threw him under the bed.

In 1938, Bombeck’s mother re-married. She thought she was the “only girl in North America to have a stepfather.” Here is what she said about him:

My stepfather and I didn’t talk to one another for awhile. I guess he was a person who didn’t know how to show love. I remember when he taught me how to ride a two-wheeled bicycle. I told him not to let go, but he said it was time. I fell and Mom ran to pick me up, but he waved her off. I was so mad I showed him. I got right back on that bike and rode it myself. He didn’t even feel embarrassed. He just smiled.

When I went to college, he didn’t hang around to talk like Mom did … he just lugged fifteen pieces of luggage up to the third floor and acted sorta awkward.

Whenever I called home, he acted like he wanted to talk, but he always said, “I’ll get your mother.”

All my life he nagged, “Where are you going? What time are you coming home? Do you have gas in the car? Who’s going to be there? No, you can’t go.”

It was a long time before I realized that’s how you love someone.

As they so often did, Bombeck’s words hit the nail on the head. If you have memories of your Daddy that are like those, remember that your father was a product of his times. He had to work long days, and didn’t have the luxury of spending time at home. He didn’t have a “manual” for raising children, but I’m betting he did the best he could.

If you are raising children of your own, there still isn’t a manual. But, ponder Erma Bombeck’s words. When you are gone, all you leave your children is memories. Try hard NOT to be the Daddy doll that gets thrown under the bed.

Other posts you might enjoy:

1. Wordless Wednesday—Daddy

Tagged as: Memories