Behind every story

Google makes me smile the way the company posts its logo with cultural themes. Guess what today is?

The image reminds me of my daddy and the way I adored him. He was the best storyteller! I still remember two of them that starred me as the heroine. 

In one of the stories, I dug my way to China with a spoon from the kitchen. In another, instead of having hazel eyes, I had a green eye and a red eye, which made me the town's savior when the traffic lights went out and I was able to move traffic along with the wink of an eye--and then the other. 

Silly stories to you perhaps, but when these tiny red Keds fit my feet (see above), I was stuck in the middle between two brothers, and it was rare to feel the warmth of the limelight. My daddy's stories illustrated his faith in me. Through those stories, he let me know he believed that I would go places (China is still on my bucket list) and that I'd help my fellow travelers along the way.

My daddy was the creative one in the family. But his ideas would have flown off on butterfly wings, if not for my mother. She kept my daddy grounded, and she was his partner in building a successful career in educational media. They produced two award winning films. But more importantly, they produced three children who've been raised to jump at life's chance to be everyday heroes.

Games children play

Sunlight, dappling through the copse of aspen, warms my skin as I lie in a nest of pungent pine needles, aspen leaves, and Douglas fir. I've dragged the 1920s Victrola record player from the three-room log cabin where we vacation every summer, wound the handle, and placed my father's favorite 78 rpm vinyl record on the turntable. Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever" reverberates among the mountains surrounding me, giving the chimpmonks their marching orders. I tap the cadence on my tummy, and watch, through slitted eyelids, the pillowy clouds shapeshift into ponies, bears, hoot owls, and unicorns.

The slam of a wood frame screen door and the maniacal whoops of two boys cut through the music.

"Find her!"

These two words, ordered by my older brother, bring me to my feet. I know they have their birthday BB guns and I know I'm the target. I take off, running like the summer wind through the trees and up the mountain behind our cabin. But I cannot outrun the copper-plated iron pellets. I hear the pump and pop of the guns first, and then the stinging between my shoulder blades on the tender skin covering my spine. Primal fear sticks in my throat, strangling my scream. Like the shape of the shapeshifting clouds, I become a hunted animal.

I lose myself in the trees and circle around to the cabin. Ripping open the screen door, I fly, as if on the wings of a unicorn, inside to my daddy's protectived arms.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asks, giving me a comforting hug.

I hear my brothers trying to catch their breath outside on the porch. I imagine I can smell their sweat, but it's my own stink of fear that I'm inhaling.

I know I'm not supposed to tattle on my brothers, but the words spill out: "The boys..."

Like the two words my brother Stone uttered that sent me running, I can hear Stone and Mark scamper off the porch. I'm sure they've sprinted across the meadow in front of the cabin and are headed for the river banks of the Red River.

They don't come back until late afternoon, but when they do, my daddy confiscates the rifles. "Your sister is not a target. You were supposed to shoot at the paper targets we got you, not each other."

My daddy was my protector. And even though I've learned to protect myself, I miss him so much.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Collections

When I was younger, I collected lots of wonderful treasures, including dolls and picture books. My father started me with my first collection: stamps.  I never was particularly interested in that hobby, but I was very interested in being the center of my daddy’s attention, so I took the stamps he brought me and dutifully placed them into the binders. Lord only knows where those collections are now…

When I was a little older, I became a tomboy, which was only natural since I was the middle child born between two boys. I collected scrapes and bruises from following them over fences and through blackberry bushes or by following the culverts and tunnels that guided the Town Creek from Sam Houston's home and museum and our house. I also collected a toughness that comes from playing firecracker shootouts and having an occasional firework explode in my hand rather than in the air flying toward a brother’s head.

As I entered my teens, I collected lots of personas along with fitting names, trying to find the right fit for the individual I would become. My cousin and I gave each other sassy names to fit the images we had of becoming saucy women someday. I was Kitten; she, Bubbles. My older brother Stone’s friends named my younger brother Pebble and named me Rox.  We felt very cool among our friends who had no siblings and were faceless to the older crowd.  My friends had fun giving me derivatives of my given name Joyce: I was called Jerse, Joycie, Juice, and Jice. Because I was named after my mother, my daddy kept trying to get me to adopt the name Junior, but I was  past my tomboy days and had no desire to be known as Junior.

I collected my first boyfriend at sixteen, and my favorite name, Baby, came out of his mouth in that easy Southern drawl of his, pronounced, “Baay-be.”  Occasionally I was known by another “b” name for my cattiness, especially when it came to trashing some other girl’s reputation because she didn’t fit the standard I had set for teens outside my clique. Shame on me.

During my young adult years, I collected college degrees and years of experience in classrooms as both a student and as a teacher. I found that the best way to become an expert in anything was to teach the subject. As a result, I became an expert in college marketing and collected a slew of awards and plaques from state and national organizations while I climbed the ladder in administration and made a reputation for myself. For about a decade, I was one of go-to women in the Texas community college movement. I also collected two sets of divorce papers.

At mid-life I collected illnesses and maladies: fibroid tumors, ulcerative colitis, psoriasis, diabetes… but thankfully, I also had a collection of friends who would not let me give up, lie down, or step off the path but, rather, to move on to the next collection, which is the greatest one of all—the collection of memories.

I may be battered, but I’m far from through!

Father's Day Thoughts

One-half gallon of pistachio ice cream has always been a staple in my freezer for the three months that Blue Bell makes it. Pistachio was my father's favorite. He introduced it to me at Howard Johnson's on a family trip to Houston. I was a child--probably 10 years old and in the third grade--but I remember clearly how grown up it tasted. Crunchy, exotic.

For the 19 years since his death, I reached for the green carton of Blue Bell when pistachio came in season. I would spoon the ice cream in my mouth and savor the sweet, sweet memory of my daddy. Most times I could delight in 1/2 cup, but occasionally I was so lonely for him that I'd gorge in the entire carton till I was sugar drunk and had to sleep it off.

I miss my daddy, especially today; it's Father's Day. But ice cream is not on the menu. Instead, I let my heart ache as his memory washes over me. No need to anesthetize my feelings and let them get stuck and cripple me. Instead, I focus on my son and how much of my father's best qualities he carries. Matthew is creative and kind and loving and intelligent and compassionate and adventuresome. Irish-American blood runs deep currents of steadfastness in the souls of its ancestry. My father has left this world and yet the best parts of him still live within and through his grandson.

I am blessed.