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I Love You An Awful Lot

Reflections on a Life

By C.A. JaymesPublished 2 years ago 6 min read
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Me & Dad ca. 1960-ish (author's photo)

My father died 20 years ago today, and by way of tribute, I would like to share a few precious memories of him on this anniversary of his passing.

My dad was born in 1929 in Elwood, Indiana, a tiny town set amid endless corn fields. At 18, he joined the Army and never returned to the state of his birth— he always quipped that Indiana was a great place to be from. But despite spending the remainder of his 73 years in Southern California, he never lost his deep, Hoosier twang.

My father was a highly-intelligent man, and despite having been raised in a small, rural town, he was very well-read. He loved history, literature, and poetry. When I was a small child, he would come to my room every night and read to me before tucking me into bed — often from his well-worn copy of James Whitcomb Reily’s Best-Loved Poems.

No one could do justice to “The Hoosier Poet’s” work — written in heavy Hoosier dialect — like my dad. God, how I miss hearing his voice. If I’m really quite sometimes, I can almost hear him reading to me:

When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock…

—When the Frost is on the Punkin’ by James Whitcomb Riley

I remember a thunderstorm one night when a bolt of lightning struck a telephone pole in front of our house with an ear-splitting crack, cutting the electricity, and plunging us into darkness. And I remember my dad holding me on his lap and telling me there was nothing to be afraid of — lightening was just electricity and thunder was just the sound it made. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to feel his strong arms around me just one more time.

Dad could be really fun, too. My brother was born on Good Friday when I was seven. Due to some minor birth complications, he and my mother were still in the hospital on Easter Sunday, so my dad was in charge of our Easter egg hunt that year. My sister and I woke to trails of jelly beans snaking through the house, leading to a pair of goodie-filled Easter baskets — including chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs instead of those yucky hard-boiled hen’s eggs that dad and I were both allergic to.

Another time, I developed a terrible hankering for a coin purse to accessorize my Brownie uniform. The purse was about the size of a 3' x 5' index card, with a little triangular flap, a snap closure, and a loop on top for fastening it to your Brownie belt.

Anyway, when dad got wind of my yearning desire for this coin purse, he went out and bought me one. But instead of simply forking it over when he got home from work, he threaded it onto a ribbon, crept into my bedroom while I was asleep, and tied the ribbon around the neck of the gigantic stuffed mouse that stood guard beside my bed. When I opened my eyes the next morning, the first thing I beheld was my new coin purse! Raptures! This surprise was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy, because it was so completely unexpected.

I followed my dad around everywhere. I wanted to be just like him. Dad called me his “beer bearer,” because I would hold his Coors for him while he tended his prize-winning dichondra lawn, or hammered and sawed away on yet another of his beloved woodworking projects. The smell of sawdust, cigarette smoke and Coors still reminds me of those afternoons “helping” dad.

Dad liked to buy what he called classic cars and mom called junkers. When I was in second grade, he bought an old Chevy — possibly a ’56 or ’57. The cool thing about it was that you could remove the key from the ignition and it would keep on runnin’!

My dad rarely picked me up from school, but when he did, it was always in that big, blue jalopy. I’d beg him to take the key out of the ignition, so I could behold the wonder of “the car that wouldn’t stop.” He’d always oblige me, and one time he even let me sit on his lap and steer the Chevy while it was running keylessly! I got so excited I drove us into a small culvert by the side of the road. No damage done, though!

The best piece of advice my father ever gave me was this: “Never jump out of an airplane unless you have to.” Dad was a paratrooper with the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division during the Korean War. He had a drawerful of medals that he never talked about. He was always self-effacing. He played down his intellect and his many accomplishments, hiding behind the persona of a country bumpkin, though he was nothing of the sort.

My dad had his flaws like every human being who’s ever lived. I’ve written about his struggles with alcohol in some of my other pieces. His addiction didn’t manifest until I started high school, so I (unlike my younger sister and brother) was fortunate enough to enjoy him before his demons got the upper hand.

However, even through the tough times, I always knew my dad loved me and was ridiculously proud of me. When I was little, he would hold me on his lap and ask: “You know what?” And when I’d shake my head (pretending I didn’t know), and grinning (because I knew what was coming next), he’d say: “I love you an awful lot!” His words would make me squirm with pleasure and fill me with a deep sense of safety and security.

One of the last times I saw my dad, he was lying in a hospital bed. He’d been sober for over ten years, but the cigarettes are what got him. COPD. My dad had always been a small man, but his disease had really diminished him. As I bent over to kiss him good-bye at the end of my visit, he grabbed my wrist to stop me from leaving, looked at me with his blue-gray eyes — still as clear and clever as ever in his shrunken skull — and rasped: “You know what? I love you an awful lot.”

I don’t know how I held it together. In my family we didn’t cry in front of each other, and I was about to lose it. So I gave my dad a quick peck on the forehead, bolted from the room, ran to the nearest ladies’ room, locked myself in a stall, and sobbed till I could sob no more.

Golly, I loved my dad. I loved him an awful lot.

And I always will.

grief
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About the Creator

C.A. Jaymes

Paying it forward one story at a time. Peace & Love to all!!

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