Remembering Daddy

I’ve always been a Daddy’s Girl.  From the time I was a little girl, if I wanted something, I was pretty sure “My Da-aaddy will get it for me.”  And, he usually did.   But, a few years ago, the heart disease he’d been battling for most of his life finally won.

Daddy and me at Disney World the summer after I graduated from high school.

This past Sunday was Daddy’s birthday (And, yes, I called him Daddy and still do.  It’s a Southern thing).  He would have been 62 years old.  Way to young too not be here anymore.  Because it’s his birthday week, I’ve been thinking about him a lot.  His hands mostly, his fingers were like hot dogs and his palms as large as saucers.  Big and round and strong and rough and callused, stained from tobacco and working outside for so many years.   They always looked a bit dirty, even when they were clean.  He had large wide nails, very pink, the white part a bit yellowish.  He kept a pocket knife in his pocket and he would clean under his nails all the time.  Another Southern thing.  Don’t ask me why, I have no idea.  I’ve seen my brother and uncles do the same thing.

He always wore a pinkie ring with diamonds in it.  He also always wore a wedding ring, and sometimes other rings, and maybe a bracelet with big gold links.  Daddy liked his bling.

Daddy circa early 80's.

I have a couple of his rings and sometimes I take them out.  They won’t even fit on my thumb, they are so large.  My sister-in-law has one of them too.  She cut it down so she could wear it.  My fingers are too small for even that.  So, I keep them in my jewelry box and I take them out occasionally and smile and remember Daddy.

What is it about Daddy’s hands?

He had a big laugh and a wide smile too, his hair still a little blonde and fading back from his forehead.  I have his forehead.  Luckily, my hair isn’t fading back from it.

I don’t know why I remember his hands more than any other part of him.  I remember them working on the car.  I remember them picking me up.  I remember them holding my baby.

I remember them laying at his side in his coffin.  I remember my nephew, eight years old at the time, slipping a pokemon card in his right hand before the funeral director closed the lid.

It makes me cry to think about it.

I still miss him so much.

He always called me Chelle, and “Baby Girl”.  If he left me a message on my voice mail it would always be “Hey Baby Girl, it’s yo Daddy.  Call me.”  He was Daddy and I was his Baby Girl until the day he died.  It didn’t matter that I was almost forty at the time.  I was still and always would be his Baby Girl.  I call my daughter the same thing.

Daddy about ten years ago with my baby girl and my nephew.

As I’m writing this, it’s hard to see through my tears.  It’s been five years and I miss him every day.  He’d be so happy I’d moved back home.  That Sunshine and I were close enough that he could see us every weekend.  He’d be thrilled that Sunshine had gotten into her favorite college and everyone up at the local bar would know about.  When my brother’s new baby was born last year Daddy would have stolen him away to the local bar to show him off to all of his bar buddies.  He’s missed a lot by being gone.  And we miss him.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.