My dad is a former naval officer, over 6- feet tall, with a deep voice and dark hair that is beginning to look thin.
He’s a mechanical engineer. I used to love it when people asked me what my dad did for a living (I still do). “He’s a senior project engineer at Hydration Technology Industries,” I told them. He went away on business trips quite a bit when I was young. He used to follow him into his room when he packed for his trips. I would tumble around on my parents’ bed while he put things in his briefcase, asking him questions in between turning summersaults on the quilt my mom had stitched together. “Are you going to get homesick? “Are you going to get your own room in the hotel or will you have to share a bed with your boss?” “What happens if mom gets scared of the dark while you’re away?” Sometime he would laugh at my questions, and other times he would just answer them like they were valid things to wonder. I used to love it when I made him laugh.
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My dad was an elder in the church that I grew up in. He also played guitar during the morning worship service and taught a Sunday school class for adults. During the sermon, I would always try to sit between him and my mom. I would reach for both their arms and put them around my shoulders so we were all wrapped together in a giant side-hug. Then, as the pastor talked, I would start playing games with my dad’s loose hand. I’d touch the tip of my finger on his palm in a succession of quick taps until he suddenly closed his palm tightly around the finger, holding it tightly. I did this over and over, always trying to move faster than he did so I could avoid his iron grip and win the game. I usually only won when he lost interest in the game and started writing notes on the sermon, but it seemed hilarious and fun every Sunday.
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I think my dad feels bad for my lack of math skills. He cringes when he sees me do things like measuring things with my finger or singing songs to remember multiplication facts. That’s probably why he helped me get through every math course I’ve ever taken. I used to sit at our round oak table with him every night as he basically did my algebra homework for me. My math homework would usually be returned with “100%” written across the top, which helped balance out all the failed test scores I received when he wasn’t there to do it for me. “Are you understanding what I’m doing?” he asked while we worked. “You’re going to need to know this eventually.” I would just nod and watch the way his writing was so neat and consistent- little block letters and numbers that looked like they were marching across the page in a consistent line, even when there weren’t lines on the paper.
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Whenever I owe my dad money, he asks that I write him a check and write what the money is for in the memo line. Every time, I write the check for a dollar (or sometimes only 5 cents) less than what I owe him. Then, instead of writing something useful in the memo line like he always asks, I put a funny quote from a television show or something absolutely random that I make up on the spot (e.g., “Reimbursement for the kitten-themed turtle neck sweater I bought with your credit card”). I always laugh when I hand him these checks, and he usually rolls his eyes and chuckles and hugs me and says, “You’re such a funny girl.” I always feel really good when he says this- like my dad’s love will enable me to do anything I want.
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“You can’t keep telling me how this won’t work,” he yelled (my dad yells quite a bit, but it’s usually not directed at me- my brothers are more likely targets). “I can’t do anything for you. I just can’t.”
We hung up on each other before I burst into tears, even though I was 18 and wasn’t supposed to need my dad anymore. It was the first week of college and I called home every night, telling my dad that I hated it and wanted to come home. “My roommate is drunk half the time.” “Nobody here has even heard of the town we’re from.” “I’m exhausted and stressed all the time.” At first he would just say, “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I hate that my girl is hurting.” The love in his voice just made me cry more and wish that I had never left him in the first place. But finally, my phone calls informing him that “it just wouldn’t work,” made him yell at me. “I can’t do anything!” he said. “I want to help you, but I can’t be there this time.”
After he said that, I didn’t call home for a very long time. Partly because my feelings were hurt that he yelled, and partly because I hated the fact that he couldn’t be there, fixing all my problems in his neat, block lettered writing.
You write so well, Joanna! This is good.