Yes, Sir, Daddy Darling, Sir (Salute Twice)

Yes, Sir, Daddy, Darling, Sir! (Salute Twice)

By Minnette Meador

On that bright September morning in 1959, the kind that sparks apples on cheeks, we walked across the school parking lot. The brick building loomed gargantuan in front of us, and the pillared vestibule was filled to the brim with noisy kids. Some were confident, smug, smacking each other on the shoulders as if to say, “This is my place.” Others bounced against their parent’s hands in fidgety excitement; I was one of those.

The man holding my hand towered over my head. He had a dark complexion, abundant strands of wavy black hair (always perfectly groomed), and shining black eyes.

I glared at the other kindergartners as we approached the school, but then tucked myself behind my father’s leg when they glared back. There was never a more comforting place than behind that leg. My little arms reached around his knee and held on to still the wild drumming of my heart. His dark uniform smelled of cigarettes and dry cleaning solution. I loved that smell. This was my hero, my dad.

In his rowdy youth, Roland Charles Smith II—“Smitty” to his friends, “Sir” to everyone else—had been barnstorming in Illinois when World War II broke out and the United States Army Air Corp “recruited” him to train eighteen year olds to fly. He crashed a plane and ended up in the base hospital, where Hap, the beautiful red-headed editor for the camp paper, interviewed him and fell in love. They were married soon after.

This was one of my favorite stories, and I always thought of it when I was scared. It now danced in the back of my head as I watched the gangling group of children and parents begin to file into the building. Muted chatter turned to deafening echoes against the long corridors and green linoleum floors. Standing like cheerful soldiers, the teachers stood at attention outside their respective forts, each armed with a clipboard, pencil, whistle, and deep reserves of patience.

I was scared down to my toenails. Mom had to work that morning or she would have been there. I was glad it was Dad instead. My mother, a logical, pragmatic individual, always took the high road on any decision: “Buck up, Missy. It’s not the end of the world.” My father, on the other hand, was a human contradiction and, therefore, never boring. He had a lightning temper that fizzled almost as quickly as it left his mouth, a supersonic wit, and an anger-edged compassion that was second to none. Adversely, he also nurtured creativity, awarded intelligent solutions with high praise, and more important, could take the pain out of anything with a smile. Dad was a dichotomy of the first order.

He must have felt my hand trembling as we walked toward my kindergarten classroom, because he said, “It’s going to be great, duchess. You’ll love school.”

I tightened my lips against the title, as I always did, and managed a feeble shrug.

Dad had pet names for four out of the five of us. My oldest brother was always just Mikey. My sister was “princess;” my second oldest brother was “buddy”; I was duchess; and my little brother (poor soul) was “dink.” Dad used to tell everyone he had wanted to name him Whiskey since he was the fifth but was overruled by my mother.

He squeezed my hand and herded me toward a waiting lady who was both young and beautiful. Glancing down the line of teachers, I was glad I got the prettiest one. She flashed white teeth at me. The sparkle in her eyes looked fresh and genuine. It would fade through the year, but for now it was opening-day bright.

“Good morning,” she said to my dad, obviously impressed with the major’s dapper uniform and the smell of Old Spice that followed him everywhere. “I’m Mrs. Anderson.” She winked at me. “And this is . . . ?”

Dad squeezed my hand again, which sent me back behind his leg to peek past the sharply creased, dark green wool. In command as always, he snaked a hand behind him and pulled me front and center, then securely rested his hands on my shoulders to keep me there.

“Don’t be rude, Mimi. What do you say?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

Dad patiently cleared his throat. “Sorry, what?”

I glanced up at the radiant young woman’s face and found a measure of comfort there. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“This is Mimi,” my father told her, giving my shoulders a pat.

Mrs. Anderson scanned her clipboard and made a quick check mark. “Here she is.”

She shot another of those admiring grins in my dad’s direction and a pang of jealousy flushed my face. I liked her a little less.

With a graceful whoosh of her starched cotton skirt, Mrs. Anderson moved aside and motioned to a room full of wonders. There were toys stacked in big red bins, beautiful letters, numbers, and pictures on the wall, and scampering boys and girls everywhere, not to mention several huge un-shuttered windows revealing the blustery fall weather and a grove of hazelnut trees outside.

I completely forgave her transgression when she said, “Make yourself at home, Mimi. In a little bit we’ll have a story and some singing.” That was good enough for me.

Dad turned me around and did something rare for him: he hunkered down so we were eye to eye. “I’ve got to go to the base, duchess, but Mom will be off work in time to pick you up at three,” he said. “I want you to behave for Mrs. Anderson and the rest of the teachers here. Yes?”

I put my hands behind my back, sent a suspicious glance through the classroom door, and then looked at my feet. “Yes.”

Dad pulled back his head. “Yes, what?” His voice had that mock sternness I had learned to love from before I could remember.

“Yes, sir, Daddy, darling, sir!” I said, then lifted my tiny hand and saluted twice.

He gave me a quick hug and hustled me toward the door.

“Yes, sir, Daddy, darling, sir!” (Salute twice.) That was the defining axiom of our relationship for the twenty-two years I knew him.

Since Dad was a commanding officer in the National Guard, we weren’t exactly military, but we weren’t exactly civilians either. Most times, he was in our lives full-time except for one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. The only thing that ever pulled him away from us was a major disaster, a search-and-rescue mission, or any of a number of parties that he and his pilot buddies attended at the officers’ club on the base. My father was a very popular fellow.

He loved fishing, highly polished brass, electroplating, off-color jokes, and exotic birds. (He once had four Java temple birds named “Ring,” “A,” “Ding,” and “Ding.”) But most of all, he loved poker. So much so that on allowance day he would gather my little brother and me together and produce a worn deck of cards and two shiny quarters.

“Okay, kids. Here’s your allowance.”

As Dad mesmerized us with his fancy card handling, we would ooo and ahh, dreaming about all the penny candy we could buy with our riches. Dad would sit at the dinner table and shuffle those cards like a pro. We’d take our seats next to him and wonder again how this amazing man could be our father, ignoring the echo of my mother’s admonishing voice in the background saying, “Smitty?”

He would lift one hand to her, still shuffling the cards in the other, and say jovially, “Hap, it’s just penny ante. You want to join in?”

Mom would scowl at him and go back to her book and cigarette.

“So, here’s how you play,” he’d say to us. “There are thirteen cards in each suit and several hands, each worth a little more.”

And so it would begin.

The first few times, we would win double and sometimes triple our allowances. Those were some of the best stomach aches I ever had. Later, for some reason, I didn’t win as much; in fact, I’d lose more and more each time—at least until I got older; then Dad had to work for my allowance.

Standing in the classroom doorway, I reached into my pocket and felt the reassuring handful of candy sitting there, candy I had bought with that weekend’s winnings. Mom would have killed me had she known, but Dad didn’t say a word when he helped me with my coat that morning, although I knew he’d seen them.

The children’s voices shrieked down the hall, covering up Dad’s retreating footsteps as he left me to fend for myself. I sort of half-stumbled and half-sauntered into class, watching to make sure no one was staring at me. They all were.

After hanging up my coat, I smoothed my brand new brown and white plaid school dress into place, found a toy, and sat down at one of the little desks at the back of the room to examine it without interest. A few minutes later, the teacher came into the classroom escorting three late arrivals, whispered to them to find a seat, and then stood before the class.

“Welcome,” she said as she printed something on the blackboard. “I’m Mrs. Anderson, and this is how I spell my name. Later, we’ll practice spelling your names.”

The screech of the chalk sent my ears buzzing, but I was so excited it didn’t bother me at all.

Mrs. Anderson read the promised story, the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. Then she taught us a new song about winter, which I intoned at the top of my lungs, pretending I already knew it, making up words that sounded vaguely like the lyrics. Next, we sat in a circle on the floor.

“All right, children, now we’re going to see how well you can count,” Mrs. Anderson announced. “How many of you can count to twenty?”

My hand shot up as high as it could go amidst the chatter of excited hopefuls.

The teacher flicked her finger toward me and said, “All right, Mimi, you go first.”

Bringing myself to my full two-foot sitting height, I proudly cleared my throat and recited, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, jack, queen, king.”

Everything got quiet. Teacher’ face went blank. The clock ticked five times. Then, all at once, the children let out a roar of laughter. I sat there confused. I must have done well if they were all so excited. I bathed in the glory of my success. The teacher lifted one side of her mouth and moved on to the next child.

That night my mother and father received a phone call. The next thing I knew, they both sat me down and explained that cards were not supposed to be used for counting and they never wanted me to do it again. I wasn’t exactly sure what I wasn’t supposed to do, but I promised them wholeheartedly I wouldn’t. I’ll never forget the look of disapproval on my mother’s face squarely aimed at my poor father, who lifted the newspaper higher and gave me a surreptitious wink from behind the print as he stoked his pipe. He taught me to count properly the very next day.

Dad loved me unconditionally, saw me through the best and worst of it, sparked my irreverent soul, and set fire to my imagination with gusto. And to this day, although he’s been gone thirty-two years, I still say, “Yes, sir, Daddy, darling, sir!” (Salute twice). And mean it.