Dad's Footprints

“You heard what? Did you look it up? Find the facts?”

“Yes, daddy, I did. That’s why I was late today. I went straight to the library from school. I wanted to be sure I heard things right so I could tell you.”

Mom chimed in her two cents. “You heard things WHAT?” She was sure to emphasize the word what.

I rolled my eyes. “I heard things correctly,” I corrected.

“That’s better. Now, please tell us the entire story.”

Geeez! Mom and dad were sticklers. However, they made sure I learned.

That all began when I started the seventh grade. It didn’t end until I was in my forties. Even then, after dad passed away, mom kept her, hmm, well, I won’t call it nagging; I’ll just say she was persistent.

Mom was persistent in my use of language. She frowned on vulgarity but also wouldn’t allow improper English. I’ll give mom a break. She was a teacher. I think she was born a teacher. She encouraged her three children to speak right – oops, correctly, and never failed to let us know when we failed to do so.

Dad, on the other hand, wasn’t too concerned about how the words fell from our lips, as long as they told the truth. Rumors and suppositions had to be backed up by facts. He said it was harder to tell a lie than the truth. “One lie always leads to another to cover the first one. Then you have to remember how many times you either exaggerated or fabricated and what you said to accomplish your first lie. Don’t spread rumors. You never know when or where they began or who started them and why.”

Wow! Those words of wisdom always got me so much trouble with my peers. Yet, I always knew that what I’d spoken could be proven.

Dad also would encourage us to stand up for what we believed in. Be proud of our family name. Be proud of our country. Love our country but most of all, love our God.

Stand up for what we believe in - and he always added that “but”. “But be sure what you believe in is worth your good reputation. Don’t believe in the words of others unless you know for sure it’s the truth.”

Then, he’d grasp my hand and lean forward. “Look at me. Look at my eyes. Listen to me and answer me honestly. Smoking and drinking are good for your health. Do you believe me?”

Oh, my Lord! How the heck does a thirteen-year-old kid answer that? I knew he was wrong but, hey, this was my dad. Why would he lie?

As my eyes filled up, I lowered my head and whispered, “Dad, why would you say such things when you know they’re not true?”

He gently released one of my hands and brushed his hand over my head, then gently placed his fingers on my chin and lifted my head so I could look at him.

“Look at my eyes. What do you see?”

I siffled. I stuttered but I answered, “Anger. Daddy what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetie. You did not do one thing wrong, but most of the time, when someone tries you to believe in their lies, they’ll have an angry look in their eyes. Sometimes, they’ll look hopeless, like they really NEED you to believe them. Either way, as you mature, you. Hopefully, will know how to read a lie from the truth. Now, please, don’t smoke or drink. They really aren’t good for you.”

He gave me one of his big bear hugs as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He loved me enough to have me momentarily question him in order to prove a point.

That was only one part of my dad.

When my first husband left home, the first thing my mom said was, “What did you do?” She indicated that I failed her upbringing. Dad, on the other hand, gave me one of his bear hugs and said, “It’s okay, honey. I’m here for you. Whatever you need, I’m only a phone call away.” And he was!

I had to repair an electrical socket in the kitchen. Thanks to all of dad’s teachings when I was growing up, I had the basic idea on what to do. Yet, I still called him. It was eight o’clock at night. He said he’d be right over. “Right over” was an hour drive away. I said he could check on my work that weekend but for now, I only need him to walk me through the repair. In his wonderful and patient way, he instructed me in every step, even to repairing the wall I had to cut away for the rewiring. That weekend, dad inspected my work and told me how proud of me he was.

Yes, that was dad.

There had been so many times when dad would spend the weekend with my sons, not to just have fun, but to teach them carpentry, electricity, spackling, painting, and just general home maintenance. As my sons matured, what none of us knew was that he had gone through his tools in his basement, then went to the store and purchased duplicates for them all. His intention was to leave all his tools to his grandsons and rather than have them decide who gets what, they each got a full set.

As I said, yes, that was dad.

I raised my kids the same way. I was patient and loving and yet, strict when needed.

My sons have raised their children in the same manner. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of my sons and their children.

We all seem to have followed in my dad’s footprints.

Oh, and as a side note, mom was always there to listen and understand and lend that helping hand when needed. But mom’s another story.