Daddy

I never once called him "Father."  He was always my Daddy. In this photo where everyone looks down and squints from the sun , Daddy proudly stands in his Sunday best with Mother and me,  most likely on a Sunday after church. I was about 4 years old, which makes him 34. The year was 1945, about the time he proudly purchased their first home and we all moved into the small white frame house on the corner of Sunset Avenue and Pineda Drive in Jacksonville, Texas.

The suit and tie were saved for church, weddings, and funerals. The rest of the time he wore khaki pants and a button front work shirt, both starched and freshly ironed, covered during the times when he worked in his cafe by a large white apron  - work clothes.

Today I am remembering Daddy's hands, hands that picked me up, soothed my hurts,  made bread dough and shaped pie crusts, flipped pancakes, griddled hamburgers, worked with rake and hoe and planted seeds, grafted pecan trees,scattered hay for his cows, gripped a pickup's steering wheel, tipped his hat to passersby, held a Bible, opened doors for my mother, and applauded each tiny accomplishment of his daughters. Those hands poured coffee, fried bacon, waved goodbye, worked a factory assembly line, scraped ice from windshields and broke ice on stock tank surfaces, doctored animals, Those hands trembled when he gave me away in marriage and wiped away tears when I lost a baby, the same hands that reached for each of my sons after they were born and held them close.

When Daddy's hands trembled from Parkinson's instead of wedding nerves, his coffee cup rattled in the saucer  (he said coffee always tasted better in a cup with a saucer). Tomorrow is a day for remembering fathers,.  I salute the fine father of my children, and celebrate the excellent fathers my sons have become.  And I am grateful forever for my own Daddy, whose hands still remind me of the best ways to work and live and love..