My dad died in May of 1986. It was a few weeks before June and that first Father’s Day without him was one of the saddest days of my life.
I had lost grandfathers and a grandmother, but nothing prepared me for the experience of losing my dad. I still feel melancholy at times when I think of him. However, my father left things that I cling to.
He felt at home in work clothes. I am not sure if he got married in overalls, but he wore them in the only surviving picture from their wedding day when he married my mother. When he landed a job as a welder, he started wearing coveralls. He wore them when he worked at home, too.
When the family was young, feeding his wife and kids took most of his money, so if the car broke down, he fixed it. His diagnostic procedure was always the same. He would draw a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, tap it gently on the fender to tamp down any loose tobacco, open his Zippo and swipe the flint wheel on the leg of his coveralls. When the tiny flame sprang from the lighter, he would lean his head to one side and light the cigarette. With the hood open, he would study the motor as if it were an ancient text. After a while, he would say, “I think I can fix this.”
When old enough, I became his designated helper, holding flashlights and fetching tools. I also kept a cold glass of ice tea within his reach. He did not consider himself a mechanic, but his philosophy was, “It ain’t gonna fix itself.”
My folks scrimped and saved enough to buy a Jim Walter shell home in the early 1960s. After the sound of knocking hammers and hacking handsaws faded, my dad’s work began.
My brother and I helped him wire the house, install light fixtures, hang sheetrock, and install plumbing. That house kept the family warm and dry for years. I think he coined the phrase, “Just Do It,” years before Nike trademarked the concept. That is something my dad taught me that has served me well through the years.
The relationship between my father and me was rocky after I returned from the Army. I had grown tired of people wearing green telling me to cut my hair, so when I returned home after my service in 1973, I decided to go with the flow and let my hair grow. My dad had a problem with that. I was young, stupid and stubborn. I got the stubborn part from him, so our relationship suffered.
During that time, he did not say much to me, but he still talked to Jilda. He adored her.
After a few years, I think we both grew weary of holding on to the anger. Afterward, it was if we had never had a harsh word between us.
This morning after our first cup of coffee, I heard Jilda’s car keys jingling, and I realized she had an early morning session at work. She called over her shoulder as she walked out the door, “The fan in the bedroom is making a funny noise.”
I poured my second cup of coffee, and went into the bedroom. I sat and sipped for a long while looking at the fan before saying to myself, “I think I can fix this.”
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Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book Life Changes is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at
rick@homefolkmedia.com.
