Published: June 10, 2008 10:32 am            

WHITE-WALKER: A dad makes a difference

What can you say about fathers that the experts and writers haven’t already told us? Here’s my feeble attempt.

While growing-up I can never remember a day when dad wasn’t there. At the exact same time during the workweek he’d burst through that back door, never a second late, Mom would pour him a hot cup of coffee, place warm homemade oatmeal cookies under his handsome face, he’d look up at her and ask, “Hey Ann, what came in the mail?”

“Gee Shel, never a hello, just what came in the mail?” she sighed.

I lived at home for the first 19 years of my life and this dialogue never once varied. But would you believe that for us five kids it was a form of security? Something you could always count on? It’s funny, because as a writer now I practically live for the mail.

After dad rummaged through the pile of bills, he’d go outside on our 10-acre farm and we’d never see him again until 6 p.m., when he’d burst through that same back door, look at my mom and ask, “Hey Ann, what’s for supper?”

“Gee Shel, never how you doing, honey, just what’s for supper?”

Again, such simple small talk, but that was like food for our souls, because we were all together as a family around the supper table. Please don’t let me mislead you, and you’re crazy thinking we were a scene out of ‘The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet’, more like the ‘Cavalcade of Sports’ with all the pushing, shoving of elbows and tackling of food.

“Kids!” dad would yell out just before sitting down to supper, “Come to the table before your milk gets cold.” That’s about as witty as he would get and we’d roar with laughter thinking he was the funniest card around. Sometimes after supper and just before bedtime, dad would sneak out into the kitchen, rattle those pots and pans around and come out with his famous fudge. This was a rare treat, so we could barely swallow the sweet confection for almost choking on our excitement.

Going off to bed in the winter meant retiring to frigid rooms that you could sometimes see your breath in. You weren’t snuggled up very long under thin blankets before you’d feel an extra warmth settle over you. Dad had gotten our heavy winter coats and covered us up with them. We were now safe and secure from the cold outside world.

On Sundays after Mass while Mom was fixing dinner, I’d crawl into my father’s lap and we’d play this silly little game, “Go Get The Ashtray.” He’d lock his strong legs around my little waist and while I’d squirm and struggle to get away, he’d say, “Go get the ashtray!” Of course I couldn’t budge, but he’d playfully hit my arms and repeat, “Go get the ashtray!” He did that with my siblings, as each excitedly squealed for their turn next.

Today in our paranoid ‘Big Brother’ society, constricting a child with force might be considered child abuse, and “Go get the ashtray” would be advocating a ‘baby’ to smoke. But back then nobody realized the dangers of cigarettes, and my fervent wish today would be for every child to have a dad who could scoop them up into his lap and play “Go Get The Ashtray.” Today’s Child Protective Services would probably insist that a father could only say “Go get the child-proof capped multivitamin bottle fortified with supplements from A to Z.” But the other sounds so much ‘funner’. “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes?” Make those happy tears in my eyes remembering “Go Get The Ashtray.”

Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column appears every Tuesday.

        

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