Why Do We Wait So Long to Get to Know Our Father?

In Memory of Dad Who Taught Me How to Dance

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Dad, a very special person in the life of a child. My father and mother were divorced when I was four years old, but dad and I reconnected in vignettes.

What I remember was that mom told me I was born when dad was in the Navy in WWII in the Philippines. She said, when he saw me for the first time, I was already two. She brought him into the house to see me while I was in my crib. She said I was afraid of him, and especially when he had his Navy Hat on. I cried. So, I guess I didn’t make a great first impression.

We lived in Rockford, Illinois, then. I only remember a couple of things about Rockford. We lived in a nice little stucco house nestled in large trees. It felt warm and safe.

We bought our first dog then. We picked up the little brown and white Springer Spaniel and on the way home, mom and dad named him. They were listening to a horse race on the radio. The horse that won was named Beetlebum. So they choose that.  We all laughed about the name on the way home and because the name was almost too much to say… somehow by the time we got home, his name was officially BZ. BZ was sweet, cuddly and wonderful. He gave us 13 loving years.

My dad loved the chipmunks outside and liked to feed them, so they were plentiful there. My mom did not like them because they ate her flowers. That was a subject of contention which was ongoing. The word chipmunk could not be spoken without a discussion attached.

Once, when my parent’s had a big party one night, which I’m guessing was a birthday, or perhaps he was heading back to the Navy…I’m not sure. But there was lots of laughter and smoking and drinking and I remember being up late. The next morning the house was really quiet. My brother and I snuck into the still stale smoky living room where we found the ash trays full of ashes and cigarette butts. Empty coke cans and glasses were everywhere. I love coke, so I picked up a can that felt it had something still left in it. I had a slug…and almost gagged. (Actually, I did gag.) Someone had used it as their ashtray. That’s when I decided I’d never smoke a cigarette in my life. Although, I confess, I did learn how to smoke again when I was in grade school, out in a corn field with…well, I’m not exactly sure, but think it was my brother. It wasn’t bad until he made me actually inhale it. Those old memories still rise from my first “party” encounter.

When my parents divorced, we lived at the 180 acre farm that my grandparents owned. They moved to Eagle River, Wisconsin, and mom, my brother and I lived in the main house that was designed and planned by my grandmother. It sat on a piece of nature like heaven on earth. Beautiful black soil, the smell of fresh cut hey, a pond surrounded by yellow buttercups, Blue Bells, flowing willow trees, and acres of woods and fields to explore. I missed my dad, but mom said we would see him on weekends. He moved to Chicago and started his own Jazz Quartet. He played the trumpet beautifully; his brother played the Base, and a friend played the piano and the fourth played drums. He also got married and started his new family.

He was my Soul

One weekend he came and picked up my brother and me. It had been a few weeks and we were so happy to see him. He had a beautiful large black Ford. He graduated from Perdue University with an Engineering Degree. He was a Manager for Ford Motor Company in Chicago, where he met his new wife, who was the receptionist there. He always had a new Ford.

I rode in the back seat and my brother rode in the front. Dad had the radio on most of the time and listened to classical and jazz music. He was a great whistler and I loved listening to him whistle through a whole song without missing a note. I later discovered he knew Elmor Tanner, a famous Singer and Whistler…actually a “Whistler Singer”. He sang a popular song, “Nola”….”Nola has twinkling eyes of blue, and cherry lips perfected.  Everything nice like sugar and spice is Nola.”  Do you remember it? I sure do.

Dad took us out to the famous Algonquin Dance Hall in Chicago the following night. His Jazz Quartet played a few sets for the crowd, so it was my first time to see him play. I’ll never forget it. The Scene is etched in my mind forever. The crowd loved their music…and I was so proud that he was My Dad.

When his opening set was finished, The Ted Weems Orchestra entered the room and filled the stage with activity and instruments and a stir of excitement and applause from the crowd. Ted Weems was one of the top Orchestra leaders in the country. He actually discovered Perry Como when he introduced him on the national stage for the first time. It was so exciting for me. I’m guessing I was 5 years old. The Orchestra was well known for “Heartaches”. It was a Hit and a classic song to this day. When they played a slower song, dad asked me to dance with him. I was excited as he had never done that before…and I sure didn’t know how to dance, except for maybe an Indian Rainmaker at the farm. He had me take my Black Mary Jane shoes off and stand on the top of his shoe toes. I can still see his shiny black and white patent leather shoes. I could almost see my face in them. I did my best not to slide off his shoes in my white frilly socks and he proudly danced me around the giant dance floor. Little did I know at the time it would be my first and last dance with my dad.  (I did dance with him at my wedding…but that wasn’t a special time for me, sadly, so those memories have faded.)

The next day was Sunday and dad had to drive my brother and I back into the country from Chicago so he could get back to work on Monday. On the way home, it was dark outside, with only the yellowish glow from the car’s dashboard, as I was listening to “Jack Benny” on the radio. He was a favorite comedian of mine as he was born and raised in Waukegan, Illinois, where I was born. (And, I’m still trying to be “39”, btw.)

I remember laughing at Jack’s jokes and feeling very comfortable in the back seat of dad’s car, but I never fell asleep. I wanted those moments to last forever. If I closed my eyes, the moment may be gone. When we got home mom came out to the car to greet us at the farm. Dad didn’t stay; he never did feel comfortable there with mom, though they spoke congenially in the driveway for a short time, on behalf of my brother and I, I am sure.

Dad opened the door for me to get out of the car as I hadn’t budged yet for the inevitable separation. I just remember how difficult that was because I didn’t know for sure when I’d see him again. I always cried and can even feel that empty spot in my chest now as I write this. I’ll never forget what he said to me that night. He leaned over and gave me a hug and a kiss and said sincerly, “Remember this, honey. Saying ‘goodbye’ only means saying ‘hello’ again.” And his blue eyes smiled through my heart. “So we aren’t saying goodbye forever. Always remember that…”and I always did. We saw him less and less each year, sometimes not for months, or years, at a time.

Several years later I reconnected with Dad in Lodi, Wisconsin, where he moved after he was remarried and had three other children with a stepmother I adored. They lived on a lake there in a modest doublewide trailer in a resort area. He was retired but donated his time to his neighbors with his electrical knowledge. He loved running around the community in the Manager’s Golf Cart. There was a Tavern there on the lake, and I sat with my Dad and Stepmother at the bar. We had drinks and laughed. The lights flickered as a sign of closing time. The bartender handed dad his trumpet from behind the bar and Dad, to my surprise, began to play Taps. Then he stopped and, in the distance, came an echo of the next stanza from behind the kitchen door. A woman in the kitchen played a trumpet also, and this was how they closed the bar on the weekends. Echoing the tune back and forth.

No one left the Tavern with a dry eye…and I, for one, never have enough Puffs, Kleenex, tissue.

Dad passed in Lodi, Wisconsin in 2007 at 92…. How I miss him.