As Promised - Another Daddy Story

Daddy could do things no one else in our family could do. Maybe anyone, anywhere.

I recall when I was five hearing him tell Uncle Harold (lived next door) that he was going to lift up the corner of the house so Harold could work on the foundation. The mental image in my mind was of my daddy holding up the house with two hands while Harold worked and I stood by in amazement. When I told Lynahr and Judayl what daddy had said they laughed at me and told me how stupid I was. Daddy was going to lift the house with a jack, not his hands. My mental image was better than theirs.

One thing Daddy could do better than anyone else was deal with little children who were being defiant. While not against corporal punishment, it was never Daddy's first resource. (As rambunctious and defiant as I could be, he only struck me five times in seventeen years.) But perhaps it was knowing he had that option at his disposal which made his authority so powerful. I don't know. I know Uncle Darryl spanked (even when it wasn't my fault I missed the bus). Mickey did, too (ten years older than me). But there was something about Daddy the others did not have.

For instance, I still remember when I was five and discovering Mother had made mashed rutabegas for supper. PUKE! Daddy and Mother ate some of the most God-awful sh*t on the planet. And they expected us to eat it, too! Weeeelllll, I knew better than to put that stuff in my mouth, and I wouldn't do it. Mother slapped me. (That was always Mother's first resort. She didn't have any other tools for discipline. If she did, she didn't availe herself of them anyway.) I used the opportunity to cry as a means to delay the actual eating. Daddy was no fool. He knew what I was up to. He rose from his place and came to my side.

I tensed, waiting for the powerful slap. Daddy was 6'2" and around 200 pounds. But that's not what Daddy did. In fact, Daddy didn't shout or even sound mad. He sounded happy. Quite excited, actually. I knew that couldn't be good.

Oh! You like rutabegas? Great! Here, have some more.

And Daddy would take that snowshovel and scoop more mashed rutabegas out of the bowl and plop them on my plate. Horrified, I quit crying and stared.

Still not eating? That must mean you want more. Great!

My God! The rutabegas were becoming Mount Everest. My only hope was to begin eating. And that wasn't all. I couldn't throw up! I ate them: the original scoop I refused and the two additional scoops from Daddy. Sometimes it's just best to get it over with. You know?

Others tried that approach, but it never worked for them. I don't know why. It worked for Daddy every time. When we siblings used to get together and talk about Daddy this would be an often topic. We laughed and shook our heads at how he managed it.

Dear Daddy. He was so fun. I wonder if he makes God laugh. One thing I do know: God eats his mashed rutabegas.