Yesterday I stopped in my local drugstore to buy a birthday card for a dear friend. I paused in front of the rows of Father’s Day cards, and my heart skipped a beat. “No need for this section,” I thought to myself. Yet, greeting cards and letters are some of the special mementos I have left of my father, Mel Young.
When my husband, David, and I flew to Chattanooga to pack up my father’s office after he died in November 2009, we found a file drawer filled with all the Father’s Day and birthday cards I had sent him over the years along with hand written letters in my backwards cursive writing from faraway places and from college sharing my activities and frequently begging for just a tad more money.
Even though my father is no longer with me, I feel his presence everywhere, and I turn to him quietly in my mind when I am facing a dilemma. “Dad, what should I do?” This past week, I had to be a little tougher about some things. His voice of calm, reason and humor would have been a Godsend.
My father was the nurturing type. He could clean a wound, wipe my eyes and wrap his arms around me when I needed it most. When I fell head first off my bike going down a steep hill and busted my chin, he ran uphill, scooped me up in his arms and drove me to a clinic with the super human energy only a parent has when a child is injured. Long after my dad has gone the scar on my chin remains.
My dad was a proud graduate of the United States Military Academy. Honor, duty and love of country were as important to him as the love he had for his two women, my mother and me. He taught me to stand proud, stay honest and follow his orders. He also taught me to follow my gut and march to my own beat as an individual.
As my C.P.A. he helped me form my business, taught me how to deal with hard knocks and how to play hard ball with bankers and clients. When my bank turned me down for my first loan, he flew up to New York and summoned all his “I’ll fight for my daughter’s well being” soldierly strength and gave the flabbergasted banker a piece of his mind. I got the loan.
Oh, we fought, especially when it came to my bad decisions over men, my spending habits and my business. I was stubborn, and so was he. “You’re a chip off the old block,” he’d say. “Listen to your Dad for once,” he’d argue. And finally, when I didn’t listen, he’d pause and then say reassuringly “We’ll figure something out.”
He was a romantic. He gave my mother a rose every Friday until he was too sick to do so. He wrote funny cards and notes. I should have been as diligent about keeping his cards as he was about keeping mine.
He flew up to be my “date” when I was inducted into the prestigious Les Dames d’Escoffier society and leaped in front of everyone to take pictures when I accepted.
Sadly he and my mother missed the moment when I accepted David’s marriage proposal on stage at the 2006 The James Beard Awards. 
My parents had left the auditorium to be first in line for the food downstairs. David had not given my Dad an advance “heads up.” The next day my Dad told David, “In the South you first ask the father for permission to marry his daughter.” David’s response, “Mel, I’m from the North, and we won the War.”
The War! What can I say about his scholarly interest in the Civil War (in New York where I live it’s “The War Between the States.” In the South it’s “The War of Northern Aggression.”) He wrote four books about The War. We called his study filled with Civil War books and memorabilia ”the bunker.” Like Scarlett O’Hara, my response when he’d start talking to me about his latest War Story was, “Wawr Wawr War! I’m tired of hearing about it!” I keep his books proudly on a shelf and wish I had taken more time to listen to his stories.
But I loved listening to his dirty jokes! He was full of them, and sometimes he would tell them at the most inappropriate times -like in front of my future mother-in-law or a new boyfriend I dared to bring home, or my bookkeeper at work.
He was such a natty dresser. And so organized! Every shirt was hung with a matching tie and cufflinks; every suit jacket had a matching handkerchief. His overcoats had matching scarves and gloves tucked in the pockets. It must have been his military training to have all his clothing perfectly accessorized and ready to pop on in a moment’s notice to face the battles of the day. There were boxes and boxes of rainbow colored shirts with French cuffs and beautiful cashmere sweaters! I still wear some of them around the house with the sleeves rolled up. Sadly they don’t fit my husband. He used to chide me and my mother for spending so much money on clothes. Little did we know about the boxes of shirts he had shipped and stashed in his office along with dozens of fountain pens, another collecting passion.
He’d be over the moon to hear I’m publishing my first book. “You get the talent from your Old Man,” he’d probably say as the author of four books. Of course, my mother is the professional journalist and has written a children’s book and a play. I give credit to my writing talent to both sides of the gene pool.
My father is no longer with me today, but he will remain in my heart and in spirit in my words and actions. He lies in a beautiful military cemetery in Chattanooga often festooned with American flags. In the tradition of Judaism, there are rocks placed on his tombstone as a mark of respect. Once I placed a tie around the grave which would have made him laugh. I will never be a parent but I will always be his daughter.
To all my friends who still have their fathers, you are lucky. To all the new fathers this year, know this: Sons will follow in your footsteps and one day will stand in them as a husband and father. Daughters will steal your heart and will someday become the wives and mothers who made you the man you are today. Show them respect. Help protect their rights as women and teach them to be whoever they want.
And to the sons and daughters today who are spending time with their dads at barbecues, brunches and ball games: Give your father a real card or letter. Electronic cards are hard to keep, and one day you will want to hold them in your hand long after your father can no longer hold yours.
Gonna paint a sign, So you’ll always know
As long as one and one are two, There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you
©words and music by Paul Simon
