My dad passed away two weeks ago. Thoughts of him have filled many of my waking moments - thoughts of grief at the loss, regret that I didn't spend more time with him, sadness that I didn't write down all the stories he told me of his youth, remembrance of many good times spent together. He was not an easy man to love, as he was often grumpy, critical, opinionated, even downright glum. But I don't doubt for a moment that he loved me very much.
The image that most often comes to mind is him standing on my front porch after pulling his big white Blazer into my driveway. You see, every other week my father and I tried to get together for lunch. He'd arrive at my door, knock, and stand wiping his old brown loafers on the mat, with a big bag of stuff for me swinging from his left hand. "Hi, Sis!" he'd say, breaking into a wide grin, sometimes goofily showing off his gold tooth, as I opened the door. I'd think how he'd never change his hair, he'd always have that army-style crew cut, and how he was lucky he'd never gotten the slightest bit bald. His khaki shirt would bulge open a little at the buttons and I'd think, uh-oh, he's put on a little weight. He'd kiss my cheek, scratching my skin with his stubby beard, and hold me close in a big bear hug.
"Come on in the kitchen, Dad," I'd always say, and he'd sit at my kitchen table on the back chair against the wall, "do you want some coffee?" No, no, he never wanted any coffee, and I had begun to suspect I didn't make it strong enough for his taste.
"So what's in the bag, Dad, I'd ask." Oh, just a few things. I'd pry open the knot and start looking through at Baltimore and Smithsonian magazines, cans of low-salt soup, articles about upcoming local art shows, a heavy tray of Ms. Desserts brownies with one scooped out.
"Dad, brownies? You trying to make me fat?" Well, you know men don't like skinny women, he'd say. He worried that I didn't have a boyfriend.
This was our ritual - the bag of magazines I never wanted, the cans of soup I'd never open, the tray of brownies I could never finish, the articles that showed he understood my love for art. Now that he's gone, I'd give anything for another bag of his.
The image that most often comes to mind is him standing on my front porch after pulling his big white Blazer into my driveway. You see, every other week my father and I tried to get together for lunch. He'd arrive at my door, knock, and stand wiping his old brown loafers on the mat, with a big bag of stuff for me swinging from his left hand. "Hi, Sis!" he'd say, breaking into a wide grin, sometimes goofily showing off his gold tooth, as I opened the door. I'd think how he'd never change his hair, he'd always have that army-style crew cut, and how he was lucky he'd never gotten the slightest bit bald. His khaki shirt would bulge open a little at the buttons and I'd think, uh-oh, he's put on a little weight. He'd kiss my cheek, scratching my skin with his stubby beard, and hold me close in a big bear hug.
"Come on in the kitchen, Dad," I'd always say, and he'd sit at my kitchen table on the back chair against the wall, "do you want some coffee?" No, no, he never wanted any coffee, and I had begun to suspect I didn't make it strong enough for his taste.
"So what's in the bag, Dad, I'd ask." Oh, just a few things. I'd pry open the knot and start looking through at Baltimore and Smithsonian magazines, cans of low-salt soup, articles about upcoming local art shows, a heavy tray of Ms. Desserts brownies with one scooped out.
"Dad, brownies? You trying to make me fat?" Well, you know men don't like skinny women, he'd say. He worried that I didn't have a boyfriend.
This was our ritual - the bag of magazines I never wanted, the cans of soup I'd never open, the tray of brownies I could never finish, the articles that showed he understood my love for art. Now that he's gone, I'd give anything for another bag of his.
Go To Page: 1
The copyright of the article How I Picture Dad in Illustration/Illumination is owned by . Permission to republish How I Picture Dad in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.
| Here's the follow-up discussion on this article: | View all related messages |
For a complete listing of article comments, questions, and other discussions related to Suzanne Hill's Illustration/Illumination topic, please visit the Discussions page.