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 thoughtto myself. Yet, greeting cardsand letters aresomeof the special mementosI have left of my father, Mel Young.
When my husband, David, and I flew to Chattanooga to pack upmy father’s office after he died in November 2009,we found a file drawer filled with all the Father’s Day and birthday cardsI had sent him over the years along with hand written letters in my backwards cursivewriting from faraway places andfrom 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 humorwould have beena Godsend.
My father was the nurturing type. He could clean a wound, wipe my eyes and wrap his arms around me whenI needed it most. When I fell head first off my bike going down a steep hill and busted mychin, heranuphill,scooped me up in his arms and drove me to a clinic with the super human energy only a parent haswhen 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 andfollow hisorders. He also taught me tofollow my gut andmarch 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. Whenmybank turned me down for my first loan, he flew up to New Yorkand 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 habitsand my business. I was stubborn, and so was he. “You’re a chip off the old block,” he’d say. “Listen to yourDad for once,” he’d argue. And finally, when I didn’t listen,he’d pause andthen 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 intothe prestigiousLes Dames d’Escoffier society and leaped in front of everyone to take pictures whenI accepted.
Sadly he and my mother missedthe moment whenI acceptedDavid’s marriageproposal on stage at the 2006The 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 firstask 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 canI say about his scholarlyinterest inthe Civil War (in New York where I liveit’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 hisstudyfilled with CivilWar 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 moretime 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-lawor a new boyfriend I dared to bring home, or my bookkeeper at work.
He was such a natty dresser. And so organized! Every shirtwas hung with amatching tie andcufflinks; every suit jacket hada 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 cuffsand 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 ofshirtshe had shipped and stashed in his office along withdozens offountain 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 theauthorof fourbooks. Of course, my mother is the professional journalist and has written a children’s book anda play. I give credit to my writing talent toboth 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 Americanflags. 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 behis 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 themto 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 themin your hand long after your father canno longerhold 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 andmusic by Paul Simon
