Father’s Day

Summary

The narrative recounts a child's evolving relationship with their father, marked by moments of fear, pride, and forgiveness, spanning from early childhood into adulthood.

Abstract

Through a series of vignettes, the author paints a complex picture of their father, beginning with the fear and confusion of a four-year-old hiding their father's beer cans to prevent his transformation into a "monster," to the pride felt at age five being acknowledged by their father's peers, and the sense of abandonment at age six when left in a cotton field. The narrative continues with the father's accident and resilience at age seven, the terror of a violent encounter at age eight, and finally, the author's own experience as a parent, attempting to reconstruct a relationship with their aging father for the sake of their children. The story concludes with the author reflecting on their father's legacy years after his death, acknowledging the memories that persist.

Opinions

The author initially views their father as a "monster" transformed by alcohol, indicating a child's fear and lack of understanding of addiction.
There is a sense of belonging and pride when the father includes the author in outings, such as the trip to the general store and the cotton fields.
The author feels a mix of admiration and pity for their father after his accident, recognizing his bravery but also the consequences of his actions.
The incident in the bedroom reveals the father's capacity for violence and the author's resourcefulness in seeking safety, as well as the intervention of family.
As an adult, the author approaches their father with caution, attempting to salvage a relationship for the benefit of the next generation, suggesting a desire for reconciliation and familial continuity.
The author reflects on their father's life with a sense of complexity, acknowledging his flaws and the impact of his actions, yet also recognizing the good moments and the love his grandchildren had for him.
The quote from George Eliot at the end suggests that the author's memories of their father, both positive and negative, remain vivid and influential in their life.

I track my daddy through the landscape.

The dry creek bed next to our house I am four. Lugging the six-pack of beer down the hill, Banging my knees, once dropping the cans on my foot. Digging, my small hands scrabbling the sand and harder dirt beneath to make A hole large enough to bury the tall cans, Pounding the sand to hold them down, Wanting to hide the thing that made the monster come out. The yells and threats, finally the blows. My mother tried to protect me. It will be years before I read of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, But I know who he is even now.

The store down the road I am five. Stopping at the general store, The men gathered around the checkerboard next to the drinks cooler. Who’s that with you, Will Jerry? Gotta shadow tagging along, I see. I puff up with pride because he has brought me with him. I belong.

The forty-acre cotton field I am six. I get to go to the fields with him today. Stay here with J.C and Annie May. I won’t be gone long. Lost in the tall rows of cotton, my small picking bag abandoned, I fall asleep. The strong, kind hands who feared him and pitied me, Pick me up and take me to my mother. I feel abandoned.

The hospital I am seven. Disaster strikes with the grinding teeth of a corn picker. He’s a damn fool, but brave. Lost his right hand, but he don’t whine. Says he’ll just have to pick up and do. Wants to know when he can get back to work. I am proud he is brave

Our bedroom I am eight. It is dark outside. Lights turn on, and my mother runs in, trying to hold the door back. Lying in their beds, my sisters start to cry. I try to be still. I am hidden under my bed, reading with the flashlight I have taken out of my father’s truck. I hear clicking and the shotgun blasts. Pieces of the only doll I ever had A too pretty, unwanted cowgirl, fly through the air. Y’all are next if you aren’t gone in 15 minutes. Red eyes and shaking hands and cruel laughter. My grandmother drives to the rescue and life changes.

The old home place on the top of the hill I am grown with two young daughters of my own. He still believes in retreat to higher ground, Though life has hit him hard. Old sins and bad habits bring his comeuppance. His body has failed him, most of what he valued gone. His demon is quieter, calmer, Given to reworking family history and avoiding blame. I resurrect the relationship, careful of where we tread. For his granddaughters, he too puts on a front, Drags out a piece of the man he could have been, Digging potatoes, feeding the chickens, petting the goats, Cutting a watermelon as we sit in the front porch swing. They are fond of him.

My front porch I am older than he was when he died. He passed decades ago, whether to his greater reward, just deserts, Or giving his energy back to the universe, I couldn’t say.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them. George Eliot

And I still remember.