Before Dad Died, He Showed Me How to Live

Dressed in white pants and shirt, he spreads his hands on a flour dusted apron. Having washed them multiple times since he arrived at the bakery at 3:00 am, they are not dirty, simply covered in particles of the last items added to the 25-gallon bowl attached to the mixer. Working instinctively, with no recipes in sight he turns on the faucet to fill a pitcher of water which he adds to the mix.

The automated movements of Daddy’s hands demonstrate strength as he extends a wooden paddle 5 feet into the gut of the oven to capture the bread pans and extract them. Protecting his hands with thick cotton oven mitts, four loaves appear. The aroma invades the room as he bangs the pans to loosen the sides of the bread and dumps them on the wood butcherblock. The process continues until 2 dozen loaves rest on the surface.

Country music blares and mixes with the smells that define him. Dad’s voice accompanies Merle Haggard singing, “Take This Job and Shove It,” but his passion for this place contrasts the words of the song. As his own boss, he lives the dream by slaving six, often seven days a week at the family business bearing his name, Nick’s Bakery. The oxymoron of going to work describes the daily experience of baking, a job that provides security and satisfaction but demands constant devotion; it is his baby.

Whatever job you choose, do it well

The repetitive tasks reflect strength in his hands and the power of his fingers. After filling his coffee cup, he checks the temperature of the donut fryer, and unlocks the door leading to the alley. The firemen will arrive soon to pick up their daily breakfast roll order. His finger tests the cake batter to determine the correct consistency. With the palm of his hand he pounds the air out of the dough, rolls it flat and generously slathers butter before covering the entire product with cinnamon-sugar.

His hands display knowledge of his craft moving with the skill and precision of an artist. Then with the dough rolled into a snaking tube, he slices pieces precisely one and a half inch, cinnamon rolls, customer’s favorites.

Be a master of all trades to succeed

With the morning baking complete, the sunlight signals that the second shift begins. Without a change of name tags, Dad walks from the back of the shop, adorns a clean apron and his callused hands turn tender as he caresses a decorating tube.

Slowly he presses droplets of frosting onto a spindle that he turns slightly, repeating the process to create delicates roses to place around the edges of a wedding cake. By now the music has switched to soft rock to please the employees and the customers. Boy George sings “Karma Chameleon” announcing the reality that all humans change to the needs of their environment but reminding of the necessity to remain true to oneself.

Accept change; it is inevitable

That was forty years ago, and the family business has long since been sold and the building demolished, replaced by modern architecture. Simultaneously, the years have aged Dad, both mentally and physically.

He rests in a tattered recliner sometimes awake, often sleeping. His hands are weak but his spirit soars when he reflects on a life well lived. Pictures of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren adorn the walls and coffee tables around the living room. Images of his contribution to the world and testaments to the future.

Appreciate what you have instead of wishing for what you want

Games shows, especially The Price is Right at 9:00 am, fill the room every morning — though it has never been the same since Bob Barker retired. Drew Carey as a replacement will suffice; something is better than nothing. Even though he watches daily, he fails to match the price to the items because they do not align with the reality in his brain of twenty years earlier.

He proudly shares, “Twenty-five years ago, I attended a filming of that show. Not just anyone can get on it. We had to sit outside for hours.” It didn’t matter they never called his name to join Bob on stage because the experience made him smile. He still tells everyone who listens the details of getting the tickets, waiting in line and where they sat in the audience, never leaving out the fact that a stranger had to save his space in line so he could go to the bathroom in at the convenience store down the street.

Some days, his long fingers crack peanuts, using his nails to peel back the shells. However, more often he now holds a bowl filled with naked seeds to eliminate the increasing struggles caused by age. Often the simple task of placing a goober in his mouth presents a trial.

Love unconditional

When his head rests on the green leather of the recliner, his hands lay in his lap. The multicolored backs, once tan, resemble a white canvas decorated with blue veins, brown spots and purple blemishes. I think of the love he shared each time he wiped my tears over the last 60 years of my life and the support he offered to push me forward when in doubt.

To this day I believe the writer knew my father when I hear Holly Dunn sing, “Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle but I grew to understand there was always love in Daddy’s hands.” I love the words but Dad says they make him sad; he does not want remember the times he disciplined or used his hands to inflict pain, even to spank a misbehaving child.

I am grateful he loved me enough to establish expectations and enforce rules but remember his statement, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Never give up

Last month in a hospital bed, I watched his heavy breathing through a window. His hands fidgeted with images in the air only he could see, brushing them away. Unable to rotate his frail body, a kind nurse turned his bed to face the visitors outside.

His family, the same framed faces strewn around his home, waved, smiled and shared love. With effort, he raised a limb in the air slightly to signal awareness of our presence. His lips formed a semblance of a smile before closing his eyes again.

As I sat beside his bed and held his hand one last time, he was able to string a few words together announcing he wanted to go home. The doctors encouraged us to make him comfortable during his final hours. Though his skin appeared translucent, revealing veins that lay beneath, when he squeezed my hand, I felt his strength.

We never said goodbye to each other because that would have final and he forever lives in me and others he influenced. Though he was not a man to preach or deliver long speeches, his behaviors shared values to guide life.