35 Years

Daddy in about 1978 or 1979.

photographer unknown

It's been thirty-five years since my daddy died. There's a lot I don't remember about him. It's weird knowing that most of my stories about him are second-hand ones told to me by Mom or Nana or other relatives.

Here's what I do remember. We used to have an above-ground pool by my grandmother's house. It had yellow sides and was about three feet deep. You had to climb the ladder to get in. Unless you were Daddy. He climbed over the sides. Every time.

Daddy was a good swimmer.  He could swim underwater for what seemed like forever. In reality it was probably only a minute or two, but he would let me climb on his back and ride while he swam around. I can still remember the way the water beaded up on his back.

He used to take me with him sometimes to his favorite beer joint in town. All the old men there would buy me Cokes and M&Ms and tell each other stories. I'm sure none of those stories were fully on the side of truth. I wish I could remember them, but I was too busy eating chocolate to pay much attention. It's possible they played cards or dominos, but again, chocolate clouds my memory.

He built me a treehouse one afternoon because I asked for it. Before I left for school, I said I wanted a treehouse. When I came home, I had one. It occurred to me only later (much, much later) that he was only home because he was sick. I cannot imagine how exhausted building that treehouse made him, but he did it. And it wasn't poorly built either. It lasted for years.

His was the first funeral I remember attending. It rained. Not a heavy rain, but enough to be noticed.

Because he was a Marine Corps veteran, his coffin was draped in the flag. I remember at least two Marines were at the funeral, and they folded the flag and presented it to Mom. I didn't fully understand the significance of that at the time.

After the funeral, when people were still visiting and reminiscing, Mom asked me and my niece to take the flag to the car. We were almost there when footsteps came pounding up behind us. It was the Marines!

"We folded that wrong," one of them said and took the flag.

The stripes were visible and not the stars. Being only eight, I had no idea there was a right way and a wrong way to fold a flag. I still wonder if that's true for every country, or if it's an American thing.

The Marines quickly refolded the flag--stars out--and handed it back to us. It felt less solemn that time. But I think Daddy would have gotten a kick out it.