Families logo

My Father's Day Homage to My Father

My Life with a Magic Man

By Cathy PepePublished 3 years ago 5 min read
3
Circa 1950

There once was a child who was so beguiled by her father, that she would lay in bed at night plotting ways to take her mother out of the equation.

That child was me, and no, I didn’t grow up to be a sociopath. I just wanted my dad all to myself. In a way, I did have him to myself for many years because of my parent’s working arrangements.

Both of my parents worked but they had different shifts. My father worked at a tannery in the very early hours of the morning and my mother worked the second shift as a supervisor at Sylvania’s. I came home after school to my father and my father tucked me into bed at night. My grandparents and my Auntie Retta, who was nine years older than me, lived in the downstairs

apartment. Loretta and my father were essentially my caretakers but it was my father who was the mother figure. He cleaned the house, cooked when we weren’t downstairs eating at my grandmother’s, and did all of the grocery shopping. Sometimes, I forgot what my mother looked like.

My father and I had things in common. He loved animals and so did I. When I was two years old, we were standing in front of the house and a parakeet landed right on his finger. We had that bird for 16 years. Pretty Boy could even talk. He picked up things my mother said and parrotted back her swearing. My magic father caught a magic bird, even though he did imitate my mother.

My father could naturally draw. My mother’s interests were tied to homemaking and sewing. She liked to change the wallpaper in the house every few years. As soon as he tore off the old wallpaper my dad would whip out a marker and draw cartoons all over the walls. He encouraged me to just draw and write whatever I wanted before he put the new paper up. I think he was instrumental in me becoming an Expressive Therapist.

When our extended Italian family went to Beaver Lake in New Hampshire for vacation every year, he taught everyone how to swim. Not just the kids in our family, but the kids in the neighboring cottages.

He just had these Shamanistic qualities that no other dad had. For example, Beaver Lake was full of bloodsuckers and all of the kids were terrified of them. Every day one of us would accidentally step in the mucky part of the lake and run out screaming, leeches hanging on us, blood trickling down our legs. My father had a secret weapon. It was the saltshaker, the almighty antidote. Once he caught the running, screaming, hysterical child, he would pour salt over the leeches and they would let go. To this day, I have Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome that prevents me from going to a lake.

My father’s saltshaker was also the magic elixir that brought things back to life at Beaver Lake. When the mood struck him, he would gather all the kids around a picnic bench. Then, he would just quickly snatch a fly out of the air with his hand. He then carefully placed him in a cup of water until the fly succumbed and drowned. He would ask each kid to testify that the fly was indeed dead. He would gingerly place the fly on a napkin. It was not merely dead, but really quite sincerely dead. (I borrowed that from the Wizard of Oz) Then, he would whip out the salt shaker and pour salt all over the fly so that you couldn’t even see it anymore. Then, suddenly, there would be fly movement. A leg would shake, a wing would erect itself. Pretty soon the fly would dust off the salt and “fly” away. It was a miracle. My father could literally raise the dead.

My father was a genuine teacher of the natural world. He taught us that when cats wash behind their ears, it means it going to rain. I don’t know if that’s true but I still choose to believe it.

My father’s generosity was one of his remarkable traits. When I was a kid, my parents bought a “new ” used car. Instead of selling the old car, he just gave it to a neighbor. It didn’t go over too well with my mother. He just told her that the neighbor needed the car more than we needed the money and that was the end of the story.

There aren’t enough positive adjectives to describe my father. Above all, he was patient, kind, fair, and loving. He had the ability to always put things in their proper perspective. While the rest of the family could get caught up in gossip or pettiness, he made us look at the situation from all angles and never judged. Well, once he judged my loser boyfriend by saying, “He’s a beachcomber without a beach.”

My father had a very dry wit. Just when you thought he wasn’t listening, he’d utter a one-liner that would bring the house down.

Every day, I feel my father around me. I hear his voice in my head telling me to be less judgemental and more appreciative, to look at the situation from another perspective. When I complete a piece of art, I hear his applause.

I am still a child and he still is the most positive influence in my life.

immediate family
3

About the Creator

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments (1)

Sign in to comment
  • Richard Lemon10 months ago

    Beautiful memories. Your father was a special man. My privilege to have known him. ❤️

Find us on social media

Miscellaneous links

  • Explore
  • Contact
  • Privacy Policy
  • Terms of Use
  • Support

© 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.