There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. --John Gregory Brown
My father was a soldier and often away at some Army course for advancement or hardship tour abroad when I was growing up. Though I have lovely early memories of him when I was in diapers, they are fragments... moments. My first whole and continuous memory of him as a real and permanent fixture in my life is of the day he came home from Korea.
I was three, almost four, I think. And, we'd been living in the Sheepshead Bay area of Brooklyn, New York in a walk-up two-bedroom apartment. My mother had me and my infant brother, whom she delivered while my father was away. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, both sets, who lived elsewhere in Brooklyn.
My father's parents' home actually belonged to my great-grandfather, John Valentine Murphy. He was a retired fire captain. In the living room of that home, on a bookshelf just near the Waterford crystal bottle of holy water, my grandmother had pictures of her three sons all in uniform. My uncle Jack in his navy uniform, my Uncle Bill the pilot, and my father the army lieutenant. They were very dashing and handsome. Sometimes, when I had been out playing, I would get thirsty. And I'd drink the holy water rather than run all the way to the kitchen. I would look at my father's picture and wonder what he thought. He always seemed to be smiling at me. So, I guessed he didn't mind.
On the nights that I spent at my father's parents' home, we followed a ritual. My grandmother or grandfather bathed me in an old claw-foot bathtub and put me in pajamas. I was taken down to the kitchen for eggnog... real eggnog with raw eggs, creamy whole milk, vanilla and sugar (to thicken my blood, my grandmother said). Then we went into the living room where my grandmother would take the holy water bottle and moisten the fingers of my right hand. I'd cross myself -- "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost" -- and ask God to bless my father and my Uncle Bill. I don't remember asking him to bless Uncle Jack, but he was no longer in the military and I guess Grandma didn't think he needed blessing. (Little did we know; however, I'll save that for another blog entry.)
Then we'd go upstairs, say goodnight to Pop (my great grandfather), who would say, "God bless you, dear.") and after bedtime prayers, I slept. No wonder I worshiped my father. He was part of my early religious experiences. And, I didn't really know what a father was at that early age.
I was playing in the corner of the kitchen when my grandmother walked in with my Dad. He was in uniform. My grandmother loved to tell the story. "You were playing and I said, 'Look who's here.' You turned around and flew into his arms. Your father said, 'They told me she wouldn't remember me.' And you cried. And I cried."
"Did Daddy cry?" I would ask. "Oh, no. Men don't cry. He was soldier."
My father continued to go away to schools, on TDY (temporary duty) and hardship tours as I grew up. But when he was home things were always calmer. We were less anxious as a family. There was a steadiness, a calm and a lot of laughing when he was home. There were constants. And, life was simpler because he had rules, a way of living, and all of it came down to doing the right thing.
From him I learned:
"Never take away anyone's dignity."
"Take your time. If you don't you'll have to do things over."
"Take pride in your appearance."
"You represent your family. What you do reflects on all of us."
"Take responsibility."
"Work hard."
"Look at the bright side."
"Learn to laugh at yourself."
"There is nothing more important than family, in the end it is all you have."
"Keep your eye on the ball."
And, so much more.
Today the girls and I called him for Fathers Day. I listened as they talked to their grandpa and I was reminded once again of the golden thread of my father's words (and actions) that weaves throughout the lives of his children and his grandchildren.
Happy Fathers Day, Dad. And, to all the Dads out there.
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