Dad Watching and Memories

It was what I did.

Dad didn't talk much. When he did, YOU BETTER LISTEN!

He wasn't home much - always out to sea.

When he came home (in port), we kids would wait for the appointed time and gather on the living room floor waiting for dad and his suitcase. Dad always brought gifts home from overseas for us. No reason in particular, just because. I never asked, maybe it was his way of saying he missed us or he thought of us while he was gone.

One year it was more memorable than the others. Each of us three girls got a beautiful carved wooden jewelry box from Bangkok. Each shelf was lined with green patterned satin. There was a secret drawer in the bottom. It too was lined.

That is where I kept it. 'It' was what came the following year. A necklace from another overseas trip. An open gold heart with a stone of jade hanging in the middle. I rarely wore it. It felt more precious to me in the secret drawer. There was something about having pieces of my dad together - in one place where I could touch and view anytime the mood came. The necklace and jewelry box were more a symbol of acceptance and acknowledgment to me from my dad that I was growing up, no longer his little girl.

I was always glad when he was home from overseas. I'm not sure why though. We didn't play board games. He didn't tell me Navy stories. I was always curious about the man who silently came and went. I never understood his relationship with my mom, they didn't talk either, at least I never heard them talk. That was the marriage relationship model I took with me.

I remember the view of dad from the kitchen screen door as he worked on the family car..yes the Pink Rambler. I had a sense he did not want company so I stayed put. I also had a sense he knew I was there. I don't know if he enjoyed my form of company or not. I know I did.

It was stolen moments like this I cherished. Times when I watched my dad work on projects in silence.

You know I don't like c a m p i n g. I have a hard time even saying the word. However, surely we all can find one good thing from every bad moment or event. For me, the good camping memory was Snoopy. My dad was artistic among other talents. I watched from a distance while he did a free hand painting of the Charlie Brown dog on the back of our camper. Snoopy was happy and dancing. I guess dad thought camping was fun.

poor guy