Insomniac's blog

Today is Father's Day here in the United States. I spent the majority of the day hanging out with my dad and mom at their house. Darling and I brought the kids and spent about four hours just in the company of family. My dad has always been difficult to be sentimental with, and in a way, I kind of prefer him like that. But, today I was reminded of an assignment I had in one of Rob's classes. To be quite honest, I don't recall what the assignment was but I wrote about my dad and how he fueled my love of history, especially the history of working-class people in the United States. Anyhow, as I was typing, I was reminded of that assignment today when I wanted to have a sincere talk with my dad but the words couldn't seem to budge out of my head and out of my mouth. So, in order to purge my thoughts, I will write my dad a letter here.

Dad. Remember all those times that the stupid power would go out and you would get the Coleman lantern and set it in the middle of the table while Mom was making dinner for all of us? You would tell all five of us kids stories about growing up in the wild woods of Northwestern Pennsylvania. Stories of mountain lions and bears. Stories of hiding in two-holers with your brother Harry. Stories of coon hunts, fishing, mining for coal when you were a boy, logging with your dad in the big woods. You would tell us stories of how you went to bed hungry most nights because your dad was too old and worn-down to log and mine anymore. You told us to be grateful for every morsel we had to eat because there were times when you and your sister and brother had to eat boiled potatoes for days on end, with no butter or nothin on them! Your stories weren't just stories of misery and woe, work and lack of money, the humility and shame that being poor meant to you...your stories were full of humor and honor in being a working man.

All throughout my childhood you worked. You worked hard, too. You slaved away in dirty, loud, and sweaty factories. Your hands grew weary and stained from labor. Your back became strong and you always seemed larger than life to me. You were a rock of a man. Strong, determined, able to take care of your own. You taught me to love my working-class background. You taught me never to dismiss anyone who worked with their backs and hands. You were the one who taught me the value of a hard day's work and what the meaning of hard times was.

Through it all though, you still managed to be my dad. You still came home every night and played baseball with us. You still took time out on Sundays, your only day of rest, to take three whiny kids and your wife to that picnic spot down by the creek. You were there when I became diabetic. Your stronge arms picked up my wasted and weary body and carried me into the hospital. That whole week I was in the hospital you managed to make it down to spend your lunch break with me. When I started driving you were the one who fixed the clutch in my car. You were the one who picked me up on some desolate dirt road in BFE when that damn car broke down. When I became pregnant at sixteen, you did not condemn me or scorn me or make my life miserable. Instead, all you said was, "Nita, being a parent ain't just for eighteen years. It is for a lifetime". You held my hand and wept when my second daughter Madison died at birth. You rejoiced when Princess and The Boy were born...whole and healthy and beautiful. You are the one who still is patient enough when I still manage to screw up. You are the one who always remains strong in any catastrophe. You are the one whom I will always look up to. You are still larger than life to me.

With all my love and heartfelt gratitude. Thank you for being not only a father, but a dad. I love you.

--Nita