When Daddy Came Home

I hate the card aisle. I stand in indecision among other people who either won't move or will move but apologize incessantly for being in the way...I'm one of those people too. Choosing a card stresses me out (period). Father's Day is the worst.

I shop early--with the holiday shift--you know, when last week's burned out worn and faded dated and out of style holiday goes from 50% off to a full fledged smileyfaced ROLLBACK of 75%--and the springyfresh bedazzled NEW holiday glides in. I know, these are just cards. But there are also words, and words, words are everything. Everything.

Words are so much of everything, that I'm not sure that I will be able to fully explain this.

My dad began working in Washington D.C. when I was in elementary school. I can't tell you what year, because as a kid, I didn't keep track of things like that. He worked for the National Park Service. My earliest memories of that include a reprimand for picking a flower in Shenandoah National Park. Do NOT pick flowers in a National Park. Noted. I thought my dad was a big deal. My dad wore a uniform and a badge, and  a Smokey Bear hat. Cool.

Everywhere my dad worked seemed like a big deal too. The Old Post Office where we'd ring the tower bells even though we weren't really supposed to. The bell pulls were floors below the tower and suspended from the ceiling. In my memory they are covered in a burned orange velvet and just taut enough to pull a young girl into the air as the tonnage of bells ring hundreds of feet above our heads.

The Lincoln Memorial where we'd slide down the marble walls that slopes at each side of the steps even though we weren't supposed to. Because of my dad, the private offices above and the cavelike spaces below were open to exploration...well, sort of. Below the Lincoln Memorial a labyrinth of catwalks creeps below stalactites and past ghostly cartoons left on the stone supports by workers during its construction.



I ran my fingers against the black glass length of the Vietnam Memorial, and pressed into the names with my fingertips. I watched flowers and flags and letters lie in state. I remember Daddy explaining the meaning of MIA, and I remember the grown men who cried and leaned into the blackness of the Wall.

My favorite though, my favorite was the Washington Monument.  I climbed the 890 plus steps to the top. And, Daddy let me drive the guest elevator for hours as he worked in the ranger station below the hill. It's 555 feet and1/8 inch tall. Construction stopped during the Civil War....Oh what a joy, what a privilege. I worked that lever like a professional. Up. Down. In. Out. I haven't been 'up' since Daddy left the Mall.

Daddy's office was twenty paces from the backstage door at Wolf Trap. Autographs, concerts, backstage tours. A teenager's dream....

But when my dad left to work in 'the city,' my life changed. He evolved from seasonal to full time hours away. My mom became a single parent for four or five days a week. My dad in a lot of ways became a visitor in his own home. He lived my childhood out of a duffel bag and toiletry kit. And I did not understand.



Routines changed, and with each came another sacrifice. Daddy worked at Wolf Trap when I was a teenager. Lawn seats to a concert meant an opportunity to visit, but a glamorous job meant even more time away from home during the summer when we were home from school. As I grew older, I'd lie awake, sometimes with my sister, sometimes alone waiting for Daddy to come home. I'd listen to the roar of the attic fan or the frog songs and wait for the headlights to turn into our driveway. He'd limp in twothirtyinthemorning with his bags and a, "Hey Baby." Then, I'd go to my room and sleep.

At that time, my feelings for my dad mixed violently. There's no other way to express this than to say that I drove my mom crazy. I picked fights with my sister just to do it. I screamed at my mother when I didn't get my way--tantrums. I stomped, I slammed, I sassed. Impossible and irreverent. And so, I'd wait and plot to tell my dad all about my disappointment, my despair, my disagreeable family. He was the cool parent. My mom was too strict. Too many rules. Too unreasonable. Daddy was only home for a couple days at a time. He rarely said no. And so I learned....

But there were also times when I targeted him. My resentment was unlimited. He left us. He made my mom mean. If he weren't away so much, she'd be happier. She'd be nicer. She'd give us our way. When he was home, he spent hours in his greenhouses with his stupid plants. When he was away, he expected us to care for them. I hated those plants. How could he tell me what to do? Who did he think he was? He saw me two or three days a week, slept until noon, and thought that he would tell me what to do? I hated him for not coming to the Homecoming game the night I was crowned queen. I hated that he didn't know me. I didn't let him know me.

No. I didn't understand. When he took additional work at Christmastime,  delivering for Domino's Pizza, my embarrassment grew unforgiving. Why didn't I realize that that paid for the gifts I demanded? When he swore at the dinner table and screamed that I was ungrateful, I didn't yet know that he did it all for us. He called me a prima donna once and although I didn't understand  his meaning at the time, I felt the sting. When stress and fatigue lead to depression and frustration, I thought he hated us.  I began to wish for him to leave as much as I wished for him to stay.



Finally though, Daddy came home for good, and slowly, I came to know and understand him. We don't always get along. Every once in a while we explode and scream and square off in opposition. He says I'm like his sister, but I think I'm more like him. We're stubborn and opinionated. We're intelligent and inquisitive. We will give until we have nothing left, and then we will feel guilt for not being able to do more. We value fairness, equality, education, and opportunity. We love books and films and my mother. I've learned to love and appreciate his gift for gardening, and I no longer hate his plants. I no longer take his constructive advice as criticism...okay, sometimes I still do, but I know that he means well. My children adore their Grampy.



And now, I know. I know why he left us, and I also know why he came home. Us. All those years something inside my heart and mind insisted that he wanted to be away. I didn't realize until I became a parent...a parent who drives two counties away to work. Sacrifices are an unfortunate part of parenting. My mom sacrificed her husband, my dad sacrificed his home and time with us, and they did it all so that we could thrive.

No card expresses that. Not even the ten dollar ones that play a song....and those that record a message, there simply isn't enough time. So, for me, the card is the hard part. I don't think that I will ever find just the right one....

I love you Daddy.

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