The Great One

I was never a twinkle I my father’s eye. He did not pace the floor agonizing over my much-anticipated “burst” onto the scene so to speak.

This is not to say there was no fanfare or scramble of preparations – but basically one day I wasn’t there and the next day I was. My arrival may not have been the traditional journey into fatherhood, but that in no way diminished his role as father – a role he embraced with enthusiasm.

When I recall my childhood – it is my dad who is the center of my universe.

           

With me, he may have gotten the short end of the stick. From all accounts, I was a troubled, needy kid – full of never ending questions – searching for answers and reassurance, always making up stories and full of imagination, but quite content to follow him around like a loyal puppy and I would imagine chattering constantly.

           

My older sister and I were quite opposite. She was more of a social creature – spending her time playing with neighborhood kids – making friends – participating. I was a loner and preferred it that way. I was happy to reside in my own imagination creating adventures, changing occupations on a whim – from pirate to scientist to king of the forest.

But if Dad had a favorite, he never showed it. We had no reason to question if we were loved. He seemed to be in tune with each of us independently. We weren’t coddled. We were given opportunities to make our own choices and had to live with the consequences of those decisions.

           

Today is Father’s Day and I am reminded of the gifts we gave Dad that he accepted with such ardor and affectionate appreciation. Preparations began days ahead with the emptying of the piggy bank and a trek to the dime store for supplies. Glitter and glue were always involved whether attached to a plastic box that once held a razor to be transformed into a bejeweled holder of keepsakes and tie tacks or colored constructions paper to create a masterpiece or greeting card to include an original verse in carefully printed contrasting crayon. Whatever the creation – from plaster of Paris paperweights to the more traditional macaroni necklaces – each held a place of importance on a dresser cluttered with the objects d’art.              

Sometimes, when the house was empty and quiet, I would stand at the dresser and survey the collection taking pride in the display.

           

While I didn’t really buy into the whole “you are special because you were chosen” answer to my questions of how I came to be a part of the clan, that philosophy was continually proven through love, respect and nurturing. I was allowed to be a kid and protected from the storms that blew across the landscape of our existence. I had no doubt that it was safe to explore because if I faltered or lost my way, there would be a strong hand to grasp and a gentle nudging back on track.

           

So much time has passed. His thick reddish-brown hair has turned white, but I still see him covered in freckles wearing Bermuda shorts driving us across the country on a family vacation in a pink and white Pontiac, attempting to teach me to hit a softball (an effort predisposed to failure), or in the workshop building tiny furniture for our Barbie dolls. He is now a Dad, stepfather, grandfather and great-grandfather – or “the Great One” as he puts it. It is a fitting title because he is a great one indeed.

Copyright © 2012 Rebecca Hertz