Dad

I did not appreciate all that my father did for me growing up until I became a father myself. Even then, the awareness of how his life, his choices, and his sacrifices affected me came only in small pieces, fitting together into a puzzle that would one day be complete. Things I took for granted I now realize were costly to him. Did he lay awake at night, as I have, paying bills in his mind and counting the leftovers to see if there was enough to buy those new Converse sneakers I wanted for school? How did he have extra cash set aside to pay the doctor or hospital after one of my many random, clumsy accidents? I never thought about these things when I was a kid. I got what I needed, and I never questioned where it came from or how it was paid for. I was allowed to be a kid, which is just about the greatest gift a parent can give a child.

He didn’t have it so easy. When his father became ill, Dad dropped out of high school to work for the County Road Department. At ages 16, while I sat in air-conditioned classrooms, whining about a particular lesson or boring reading assignment, Dad had been digging ditches and shoveling gravel. If I earned a few dollars mowing a neighbor’s lawn or moving wallpaper boxes at Brazen’s department store, the money was mine. I could buy an album or go to a movie. I could do what I wanted. Dad’s earnings bought food for his siblings and paid rent for their home.

It’s hard for me to relate to the long days of hard labor Dad experienced. My one week of real labor occurred in a concrete block making plant…standing at the end of a conveyor belt, catching 42 pound blocks and stacking them on a pallet. By lunch time of the first day, I had already decided that if I survived, I would stop at the end of the week. There was some pride though, as I returned home each evening to my new wife, covered in grit and dirt, hands calloused and arms weak and sore.

Proud I may have been, but my taste of hard labor did not whet my appetite for more. That’s when I moved to Tennessee and eventually found employment with the government. Problem solved.

After a few years with the road department, Dad became a truck driver, hauling concrete block and silo staves for Long Bros Block and Supply. In those early days, before the Interstates were built, a trip from the block plant in Shelbyville, KY to Knoxville, TN could take eight hours or longer. I always loved hearing about the long trips over those two lane roads like Hwy 27 and US 60, through farmland undisturbed by suburbia, stopping at diners that flourished in the small towns and roadsides along the way. It was in one of these diners in Lawrenceburg, KY that Dad met Mom.

Mom and Dad married in 1954 and my brother Wayne was born in 1956. David was born in 1959, me in 1964, and Tracy came along in 1968. They bought the big house on Third Street in 1960, renting out half until it was paid for. By the early seventies, when my memories grow clearer, we had the place to ourselves.

Dad would be gone a lot, and I think I justify my own excessive travel schedule by the fact that I did not feel deprived of a father because he was on the road. He was home every weekend, but his presence was there every day. There was always the awareness that at some point, the activities of the week would be relayed to him, whether by Mom or a tattling sibling. We were all eager to be presented in a way that would make him proud, and definitely tried to avoid being known as a cause of trouble for Mom, which would not make him happy at all.

As a boy, I wanted to be like Dad. I wanted to drive a truck, which held the modern day exotic lure of a cowboy, riding into the sunset on his trusty horse. Each summer, in a highlight that held more thrill to me than a vacation at the beach or amusement park, I got to accompany Dad on a short trip. Climbing into the cab of the truck, hearing that diesel engine start up and the lurching feel of the clutch grabbing and gears changing, I was grinning from ear to ear, inside and out.

Watching my Dad drive, turning and backing the truck and 40 odd foot of trailer with ease, I was sure of what I was going to do. Sometime later, and much to my disappointment, I realized I had neither the driving ability, nor the patience to do what my father could do so effortlessly.

There were a number of other skills that Dad maintained in his mental toolbox (electrician, carpenter, mechanic, gardener, etc.). Being able to do a variety of useful things came naturally to him. My brothers laid claim to most of these skills before I came along, leaving me with the general aptitude to “go get” stuff. I was quite handy at retrieving a Phillips head screw driver or a monkey wrench, usually with enthusiasm and impressive speed. As long as I was not expected to hammer a nail straight or change the carburetor on the car, my embarrassment was minimal.

When the silo business Dad had worked for closed, after employing him for over 30 years, Dad became the local distributor for Silo-Matic farm equipment. Suddenly self-employed, dealing with inventories and balancing ledgers, Dad never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He was always good with numbers, and unlike the ridiculously complicated math lessons taught today, he had learned the essentials of arithmatic and geometry and could do high number division and multiplication in his head faster than my kids can punch them into a calculator.

On Sundays, Dad would put on a suit, a tie and a dash of Old Spice; then take us all to church. This was not an empty gesture. He didn’t do it because it was expected of him. He did it because he believed it was the right thing to do. He was a Christian and not ashamed to show or tell it. He wanted the same for his children.

Dad sang in our small church choir, and sometimes sang a solo. I learned to sing and love music in that small chapel. Simple gospel songs that still play in my head when I am sad or happy or needing a friend. One of my strongest memories as a child was sitting next to my Dad in church. When he put his arm around me, I would lean against him and fall asleep to the gentle, lulling tone of the pastor’s sermon. It was the safest feeling I have ever known, and I hope I’ve provided that at some point to my girls.

I’m not sure he’s ever forgiven me and Connie for keeping three of his grandkids in Tennessee, but he should never doubt that they love their Papaw Warford. They love when he sings them silly songs or takes them for walks at Shelby Lake. He had already won their hearts, but he sealed their everlasting devotion by taking them to Dairy Queen for Ice Cream whenever he got the chance. I should have taken them “home” more often.

It’s been nearly ten years since Dad was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. Thanks to a lot of prayers and his strong will, he survived and has been in good health since. It was the moment though…one that we all face at some point…when we see our superhero, the strongest person we know, fall weak. My kids have seen my human frailties many times in their young life, but I had to wait until I was a father myself to see my Dad that way. Hard as it was, it gave me a new appreciation for my Dad and the time we have left. I’ve been blessed with ten more years, and I’m grateful every day.

We try so hard today to do the right thing for our kids. We read books and listen to therapists bestow their lofty advice on television. Everyone has an opinion on what it means to be a good parent. My father taught his kids by example.

Have faith, be honest, work hard, take responsibility for your actions, respect your fellow man, help others whenever you can.

These are lessons I have tried to pass on to my own children. His legacy is my legacy.

Happy Fathers Day Dad...
I Love you!