I’m blessed to have a dad who’s still in such terrific shape that he walks miles every day with his dog. There is a large boulder near a lake he walks around regularly. A long time ago, Dad started picking up a random rock at some point during his walk, and depositing it on top of that boulder when he was finished. There is now a startling and impressive pile of rocks on the boulder. What a task it would be, to accomplish such an interesting sculpture in one session! Dad has done it effortlessly, over a period of time.
That rock pile represents one of the more important lessons my father has taught me by example - that little things add up. As a child, I was irritated by his preference for tents over motels, Volkswagens over sports cars, and garage sales over department stores . . . all so he could save ”something” from each paycheck. Later, though, I was grateful to be the recipient of many undeserved loans from the First National Bank of Dad. These days, I’m gratified to see my parents retired and living comfortably on the nest egg they accumulated, a few dollars at a time.
When I was a young teen, my father picked me up from church camp bursting with excitement over his purchase of a house. I was horrified to set eyes on the recipient of Dad’s enthusiasm. A grey, two-story structure amidst an acre of weeds, this place gave the term “fixer-upper” a whole new meaning. From my assigned room in the attic, I watched my parents create our home . . . one step at a time. Dad turned a pile of cedar shakes into a new roof, a stack of lumber into siding, and a pile of bricks into a walkway. The magic continued as I grew up and moved away. To see my parents in their attractive, well-maintained home today, none would guess that it was once a teenager’s nightmare.
Little things do add up, as I try hard to remember . . . whether I’m saving money, watching the scale ease down half-a-pound at a time, or chipping away at my never-ending To-Do list.
I’ve heard my dad lament that he seldom attended his children’s piano recitals or ball games. That may be true, but he DID attend to his children. My father told the best bedtime stories of anyone I know, often featuring amusing anecdotes of our family and friends. My own children know those stories, passed on by me, in a manner far inferior to Dad’s original version. I always knew when Dad was going to say something funny, because he would raise one eyebrow and look at us sideways first.
Although he usually told his own made-up stories, my father would read to us once in awhile. Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories was never so interesting as when read by Dad. One story about a disappointed little boy contained the following comment: “Sandy’s face fell.” My dad read aloud, “Sandy’s face fell . . . kerplop, right on the floor!” The unexpected silliness delighted my brother and me, and we insisted that he read it that way forevermore. I still have that set of books, which I read to my own children, who also expect me to include the “kerplop” phrase.
Dad thought I was a knock-out. He often told me I was beautiful, as if amazed that he could have helped produce such a creature. I believed him enough to entertain fantasies of being a model as a teenager. I’ve seen photographs of myself as a child and I was not beautiful. In Dad’s eyes, I was smart and extraordinarily talented. I don’t think Dad lavished me with empty flattery. He really thought I was special and I always knew he was proud of me. Believing in myself helped give me the self-confidence to attempt and accomplish things I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. No, my dad didn’t cheer from any bleachers, but he has always cheered for me.
My father has patiently fixed my flat tires, repaired my appliances, and moved my household furnishings from rental to rental. He has babysat my children, gifted them with savings bonds, and surprised them with Nikes. We’ve vacationed together, laughed at the same jokes, and discussed religion, politics and movies. I had to smile when I heard him wish he had “been there” for my school performances. Dad has always “been there” . . . in the ways that matter most.
