They Called Him Whitey

They dubbed him "Whitey" during the years when nobody cared about such racial distinctions or made any incorrect associations. They called him Whitey because by the time he actually grew some hair on his little bald head, it was pure white blond and stayed that way for a very long time.

He was one of 9 children born to people who could ill afford to raise 2, and he made his living by working and succeeding on the dairy farm on which his parents had floundered and nearly run into the ground for the early part of his life. He grew up under the cloud of alcoholism and abuse and spent many a night in the hay mow, secreted there in the dead of the evening by his older sister in order to protect him from a drunken father's rampages. He grew up under that cloud and while he eventually succumbed to the booze, he never laid a hand on his own children in anger. How do I know?

I know because he was my dad. I tell this story in his honor because he died two days ago, in terrible health, but quickly, suddenly and with little or no fanfare. He just went and in doing so, gave me my final birthday present of three days off, with pay, during three of the most beautiful days we've had so far this year. Thank you Dad.

I tell this story to make it real. I tell it so that I can wrap my head around the fact that a man I alternatively loved, hated, resented, missed terribly, even while he lived, a man I never really understood. is actually gone from my life - not just for a week or a month or several - but really and for all time gone. It's hard. I've spent so much time away from him, I don't really know how to spend time away and understand that this time it's an infinite separation. I think I miss him. I think I'll miss him a little more every single day.

I think that as time goes by, I'll remember more the man he used to be than I will the man he became. I'll remember the man I loved beyond measure and not the man who drove me out of my mind on a regular basis. I'll start to forget the life time of hurt and disappointment and I'll more and more remember the man who contributed enormously to who I am today. Like it or not, in more ways than I can say, I'm my father's daughter. And I'll remember that.

I'll remember the man who spent an entire week at the beach pissing my mother off by bellowing out "look! Horten Turds!" at every opportunity after taking us to see the wild horses.

I'll remember the man who bet my uncles a pile of cash that I, at the age of about 10, could not only shoot one of his rifles and not let the recoil kick me on my ass, but that I could hit the target as well and then splitting the money with me.

I'll remember the guy who used to wake me up at 5:00 a.m., tell me dig worms, wait for him, and then blow of the remainder of the morning milking to walk me down into the meadow and teach me how to fish.

I'll remember the first time I let fly with "Son of a BITCH" in front of him and he laughed until he nearly fell into the creek, which is what caused my sudden and risky outburst in the first place.

I'll remember that he always used to sing "Pretty Baby" and only knew the first line or two and he never ONCE started that damned song right. But he could sing and he passed that on to me, along with these fucking shoulders of mine. God knows I didn't get his 5'5" stature.

I'll remember him trying to teach me to drive a stick shift in a 1960 International Scout and me performing so terrifyingly that my sister bailed, the dog bailed, but he held on and never flinched as he screamed at me to "FIND THE GOD DAMNED BRAKE BEFORE YOU RUN THIS BITCH INTO THE CREEK!" Again with the creek.

I'll remember that he didn't come to many of my events, but one of the times he did, I was running in the invitational portion of the USA Olympic Trials against my nemesis, a tall, inner city chick who had beaten me soundly every time I faced her. I'll remember my country father, red neck and all, purposely placing himself in the bleachers among HER crowd, and then standing on his seat, raising his fists and screaming "That's MY daughter" over and over when I finally beat that bitch for the first time ever.

I'll remember him riding me around on the fender of his tractor that entire day before the race, talking me down from the ledge, telling me I could do it and quit being a pussy. Well, maybe he didn't use that exact phrase, but you know what I mean.

I'll remember the man who never liked a single boy I dated because "he's worthless", "he's ugly enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon" or because "he looks like he left his ass in his other pants."

I'll remember the story of him wanting to buy me a train set for my 4th birthday and there not being any money for train sets and how he kept going back to the farm store day after day until it finally went on sale on Christmas Eve and how he snapped it up with the last of the money in his pocket and had it set up and ready to go for me when I woke up Christmas morning. I've seen the pictures. It rocked.

I'll remember him as the man who tried to feed me, at the age of about 8 months, the most ginormous turkey leg you ever saw in your life. It was as big as my whole head. I've seen the pictures. By the time I graduated from high school, so had everybody else in my class. Bastard.

I'll remember the man who took me to buy my very first car with my very own money telling me "never let them see how much you like the car" and then, upon seeing the car I treasured, and in the presence of the salesman, whistling low and saying "Now that's a pretty son of a bitch". Nice work, Dad.

I'll remember the man who confronted me on the morning of my very first hangover, apparently having been told by my furious mother to "get in there and talk to your daughter", who strolled into the living room, took one look at my haggard face and green complexion, smirked and commented "hot pipes?" and then turned on his heel, only to return seconds later with two ice cold Cokes, a bag of chips and wordlessly sat with me and watched baseball until I was able to get up and move. It was one of the first and most memorable "been there, done that, how did the toilet treat you" moments.

I'll remember the man who liked to wait until my sister and I had carefully decorated the entire Christmas tree and were in the process of hanging the tinsel strand by strand and would then burst into the room with his own box of tinsel and begin throwing it onto the tree in great handfulls, chorteling all the while because he KNEW he was pissing us off.

I'll also remember the man who treated every gift of an ugly tie, Old Spice or soap-on-a rope like the first one he ever saw.

I'll remember the look on his face the day he bought me my horse. I'll remember the look on his face the day we finally sold that stubborn, ornery creature.

I'll remember the day he finally let me hang out in the barn during a visit by the artificial breeder, looking at me and asking if I was sure I was ready for this, and then grinning at me after I nearly screamed and saying "I told you so." Bastard.

I'll remember the man that forgave me anything and everything.
I'll remember a man that often didn't think to think of others, but did the very best he could.
I'll remember the hardest working man I ever knew.
I'll remember a man that used to tell people that as long as I was alive, he would never die.

But he did.

And now it's up to me to return that one last gift to him and remember him as he would want to be remembered.

I loved you Daddy. I still love you. I'll always love you and I really really miss you.