My Dad

His hat hangs on a peg in my hallway. It’s not the Stetson he wore on special occasions. This one has sweat marks, and a small spot of oil. It’s the one he wore every day as he mowed lawns, drove to the sale barn, or any time he went out the door. He never left the house  bare-headed, never wore a baseball cap. The hat was as much a part of the man as was the activity that marked each of my dad’s busy days.

Today would have been my father’s birthday. He was born at the turn of the last century and sometimes I wonder if he would recognize the world we live in today. He loved horses and was much more at home on the back of a horse than driving a car but drive he did. His children used to remark that he had one speed in town or on the highway and he didn’t believe much in using brakes or shifting gears unless it was absolutely necessary.

When I think of Dad, which is often, I think of strength, honor, truthfulness. Anybody who knew Bob Day knew that his handshake was as good as a written contract and he wasn’t one for mincing words. However, he could make his point without cursing.  I never heard my dad use foul language nor tell a questionable joke and I never heard him shout at anybody, including his children.

Dad worked hard all his life. His own father died when Dad was only 16. Grandpa Day left a widow and a passel of young children. With his father dead, Dad shouldered the responsibility and became the bread-winner. He never accumulated wealth but neither did he complain about his lot in life. If he had aches and pains, he didn’t mention them. Sometimes I would say, “Dad, how are you feeling today?” “Never felt better nor had less” he’d say.

When I was a child, my dad’s word was law. Without a shadow of a doubt, I knew that the whole world might be wrong but he was right. Always. Like one of my nephews said about his own father, my brother, “My dad is always right and when he’s wrong, that’s all right too.”

Hospitality was a creed he lived by. He welcomed family and friends into his and Mom’s home. He enjoyed playing checkers and I don’t know of anybody who ever beat him at that game. I tried but in about two minutes, he had all my checkers boxed in and several of his checkers in my King row. And horseshoes–well, if the weather was good and his visitor was up to it, he got out his horse shoes, they went  to the side yard and soon metal shoes rang against metal stobs in a serious game of pitching for ringers. Although nobody has played horseshoes in his yard for a good many years, there are still indentations where the  stobs stood and the shoes hit the ground.

He detested green garden peas and cottage cheese. He disliked them so much that Mom never included them in a meal. But he sure liked coconut cream pie. If he were here today, I wouldn’t buy him a pretty cake, I’d bake that pie and he’d say, “Much obliged.”  He used that old-fashioned term a lot.

One of my favorite memories is coming to their house through the back door and finding him and Mom standing in the hall, watching me come in, smiles on their faces as they waited for me. They were always glad to see me, always. If my visit was too short, Dad would say, “Did you come after a coal of fire?”

I don’t need the hat as a reminder of the man who wore it. I have plenty of memories without it but somehow it is comforting. Although he wore it when he was out-of-doors, the minute he came in, off came the hat. He hung it behind the front door. He took off his hat when he entered any building. It was a sign of respect to do so. Back in his day, a man touched his hat or sometimes took it off when he met a woman. But at funerals, weddings, when he saw a funeral procession or the American flag go past, he took off his hat and held it. Never ever did he wear it inside a building and if one of his sons or grandsons  forgot to remove their head-piece inside, he’d remind them of that oversight.

When I was a very young child, I’d climb on my dad’s knees and ask if I could hear his watch tick. He didn’t like wrist watches. He wore a pocket watch on a leather string inside the watch pocket of his jeans or overalls. I don’t know why listening to that watch tick was so much fun but it was. And I can remember asking him if I could comb his hair. He always said Yes and I would comb and arrange it beautifully over one eye or parted in the middle but, funny thing, as soon as I stopped, he would hop up, go to a mirror and re-comb, parting it on the side and combing it off his forehead.

I always wondered if my dad was descended from nobility way back in Ireland. His bearing, his square jaw and clear blue eyes, his erect carriage and courtly manners certainly spoke of such a heritage.  Of course as with any monarch or ruler, his word was law and no one questioned it. So maybe that hat should be a crown? In a way, I guess it was when Dad wore it. But whether he was descended from Irish royalty or peasants, he was the head of our family and we loved and respected him. I still have the hat and I’ll keep it but I sure miss the man who wore it–Happy Birthday, Dad.