On Father's Day

I only had one biological grandparent growing up - my dad's mom.  But we called my mom's oldest sister and her husband "Grandma and Grandpa" and we called my dad's step-dad "Grandpa" - however, the only grandparent that my parents called "Mom" was my dad's mom, and so, when I was little, I thought that, once you hit a certain age, you started calling your parents by their first names.  And, like all little kids, I was in a hurry to be a grown-up, so I started calling my own parents by their first names when I was like 6.  My mom put a stop to that pretty quick, but my dad thought it was funny.  And so I rarely called him Dad or Daddy...I called him by his first name.

He signed every card to me "Your Jack."

My dad was one of those men who firmly and wholly believed that his children were perfect.  I always felt awkward and ugly - but I remember one morning, sitting at the breakfast bar, Dad pulled out a disposable camera from the junk drawer and took my picture.  He told me, "You are beautiful, Sammy.  You are going to be a beautiful woman."  He did that nearly 20 years ago, and still, I remember.  

Yet he didn't want his children to grow up boastful or cocky, either.  "You are so smart," he told me once.  "But you need to remember that other people aren't.  Things don't come as quick to others.  Don't show off.  And be patient with them."  

He was also firmly convinced I was going to be the next Stephen King - or some female equivalent.  He was the one who encouraged me to study writing at college.  "A degree is a degree," he said.  "Unless you want to be a nurse or an accountant, employers just want to see that you have one, to show that you can think."

And I am sure each of my siblings had their own "lessons from Dad," because our dad was the master of the quiet proverb, spoken gently as he sanded down some piece of furniture or changed the oil, told in a private moment, because even though he felt like each one of us were perfect, he also knew that each one of us were completely different.

But one of the last things he said to me before he died was, "Out of all of you, you worry me the most."

I cannot tell you how many times I have replayed that in my mind, wondering what, exactly, he was worried about.  Sometimes I think it was because he always felt that, like him, I tried to take the weight of the world on my shoulders and fix everything, and once he was gone, I wouldn't have him to spot me any longer.  Sometimes I think that it was because, even though my dad had a talent for spotting what was wonderful in each of us, and calling quiet attention to it, he was still aware of our flaws...and I have many of them.  Sometimes I wonder if it was simply because I was the one who hit him in the mouth with his oxygen tank when trying to get him to radiation, and then dropped an entire computer on his lap when trying to set one up by his bedside...because I could see where that would worry him, as well.

But mostly I think it was because, out of all my siblings, I was always the least settled.  Both my brothers were engaged at that time; one had a steady union job and the other one was about to start the police academy.  My beautiful sister had been married to her military husband for years, and was raising two blonde-haired, blue-eyed babies, and one of the things my father admired and remarked upon about her was her strength and independence.  I am certain he had worries for all of them, as well...but I was the one without a focus.  I had a box full of short stories and 2 novels, $22 in my checking account, and no plan.

I remember when I first started dating Justin, I realized he was the first man I had ever dated that my dad would have liked and respected.  My dad was not some caricature of the father who didn't think anyone was good enough for his daughters; he felt like he and my mom had raised us well enough to respect ourselves enough to make good choices.  I just think he would have liked and respected Justin as a man, and not just judge him as the man who was dating his daughter.

And, five years into our marriage, one kid added, getting ready to close on our first home, I think my dad would love my husband.  Not just because of who he is, but because of who he is to me.  My husband views me through the same, completely-biased eyes as my dad did.  "You are beautiful," he tells me, and he means it, and in my home, I am.  "You are so smart," he says, with pride.  "Did you do any writing today?" he asks me. "You need to do more.  I know if you finish that book, someone will publish it," he says, with complete confidence.  He has become my safe spot, when the world overwhelms me.  He is the one person who never doubts me, who can critique but doesn't criticize, who has doubled my joy and halved my problems, who, when I mess up, will blame everyone and everything around me before seeing that maybe, just maybe, it actually was my fault. 

I think, if my dad could see me today, he would be surprised.  I think he always expected me to end up in New York City, as an editor of some literary magazine, writing best sellers on the side.  Instead, I am a housewife, a mom, a woman who writes often...but mostly about motherhood.  But I think he would be just as pleased as surprised, because I am happy, and that would make him happy.  And I know he would be proud, because, to my dad, there was nothing more important, more beautiful, more sacred than parenthood.  

I can remember exactly the way my father's hand felt, as I held it on the day that he died.  Cool, smooth but callused, and, as sick as he was, I still felt the strength in that hand.

And I held his hand, and I looked at him, and I said, "Being Jack Palmer's daughter is the proudest thing about me."

That still remains the truth - but being Justin Kilgore's wife, and Justin, Junior's mother, are also the proudest things about me.

And I believe that if my dad could see me now, he would say, "I'm not worried anymore."