Different Note
Father's Day
As Father's Day approaches, I can't help but think about my dear Dad. And even though it's been many years since he passed away, there is still a void in my life that can never again be filled. Fortunately, time does have a way of making things easier, of healing all wounds.
In the days following his passing, my memories of him seemed to center on his illness. He was only 62. He was building a house in Gainesville when the disease really began to take its toll. Overnight, it seemed, he turned into a very old man. It was a horrifying reminder of the impermanence of life, and of my own mortality.
But, somehow, he finished that house.Mom was an absolute angel in those final days and nights as we stood vigil. I have a clear memory of her standing in the kitchen one very late night, strong despite her grief, beautiful beyond words. I wish I had just a smidgeon of her strength.
During those trying times, my brother and I walked around the family farm. The farm is one of Dad's dreams, and although Dad was gone, he was everywhere. The trees, the landscaping and the gardens, all spoke of his spirit. My brother and I talked of the many things we learned from him. We were both grateful to have had such a wonderful father.
As time passed, my memories of Dad's vitality, his youth and his love for us all, came forth. I quickly forgot his shortcomings as memories of all the great things he did for us rushed in: family vacations, fishing in our boat, Christmas morning surprises and, of course, his famous barbecue chicken.
I remember lamenting that Dad had bad luck; things never seemed to work out for him. But then Mom reminded me this was not the case. Dad got nearly everything he wanted. He built cabins in North Carolina and a house on Big Pine Key. When I came to Gainesville to attend UF, my parents bought 24 acres in the country and left Miami. Dad always wanted a farm and he got his wish. Soon he had pigs, chickens, goats and a bull named Ferdinand.
By this time, I had started my own family and we had moved into a home in High Springs. Dad gave me his old lawnmower to cut the weeds and spurs that populated my yard. He gave me a dishwasher, too. It was 20 years old but had never been used. And he would correct me any time I mentioned its age.
"It's not old, it's brand new!" he would exclaim with righteous indignation.
Dad loved gardening and had passed this down to me. In my small backyard, I planted my first vegetable garden. I found great satisfaction in watching plants grow in that tiny, sandy, garden patch -- until I saw Dad's magnificent vegetable gardens. The corn stalks towered above my head and he had more varieties of squash than I'd ever seen. Everything flourished under his green thumb. I blamed the sandy soil for the miniature corn in my garden. Truth be told, he was just a much better gardener.
Nevertheless, I know he was proud of me, even though he would laugh at my sandspur-strewn lawn. He would joke of ways to get rid of the spurs, suggesting I put my youngest son on a piece of carpet and have our dog drag him around the yard.
Dad gave me plants for our barren landscape: grape vines, fruit trees, crepe myrtles and a camellia cutting. Some did well; others did not, obliterated by bugs or the neighbor's dog. The Muscatine grapes flourished. One year, I made my first jars of grape jelly.
But the camellia was perhaps the most memorable. I planted it in the backyard but it never did very well. I moved it to the front, but that didn't seem to help, either. It just wouldn't grow. It remained a small twig with only a leaf or two, despite my care.
But on the morning of Dad's passing, when I returned home from making funeral arrangements, something drew me to that small plant. With a heavy heart, I walked across the yard to see the tiny camellia that Dad had given to me -- and couldn't believe what I saw.
It was blooming -- a gigantic red camellia flower sprouting from a small stick.
This reminder of Dad's love for us all, manifested in a colorful bloom, helped me through those hard days.
It still does.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. §
