Sat in the swing pondering on my daddy today. He loved the porch swing and sat many summer nights on the porch till the house got cool. As a child I’d go to bed content and feeling safe as I went to sleep listening to the porch swing’s squeaking symphony. Porch swing squeaks and slamming screen doors were such a part of my growing up. I think that’s a Southern thing.

I was a lucky girl when the Lord plunked me down in my family on April Fool’s Day and Easter Sunday of 1956. Two older brothers wanted the Easter bunny to carry me back but I stayed and I think, well, I know, my daddy spoiled me till the day he died. Even when the third brother arrived I managed to keep my crown on.

My daddy was an affectionate and loving father but strict and demanded respect. He had a charming smile and a loving hug. We were taught to say, “Yes, mam, and Yes, sir. And No, mam, and No, sir.” We respected authority and got a good whipping when we misbehaved. I don’t think respect is something that matters anymore. Our country seems to have a lack of respect for both life and authority.

His obituary described him as an “outgoing, cheerful, friendly man.” I loved that description, fit him so well. I was working at The Roanoke Leader when he died and read his obituary a thousand times as I worked the mailing list. John B. Stevenson offered to take over the mailing list duties for me that week but I would look at my daddy’s smiling face as I stamped each paper with an address and remember the happy times our family shared.

A father cares for his family, protects them, works hard to provide for their needs. My daddy was a wonderful role model for my family. We always felt loved and wanted. Christmas was a special time and he loved it. He’d cut a large cedar tree from the farm each year and we’d decorate it with lights and glass balls and tinsel. I can’t remember him ever putting an ornament on the tree but I see him in my mind sitting in the living room and watching us decorate it. He loved Christmas and Santa Claus always visited us even when we were in college. He’d mail our letters to Santa Claus and we’d always find a special prize in our Santa presents that we didn’t ask for but would be our favorite gift. I know I got my love of Christmas from him.

He was tendered hearted and affectionate. The first time I saw him cry was when my little brother and I were watching Old Yeller. I watched his eyes fill with tears as Old Yeller died. He loved to garden and would swap seeds and canning recipes with friends. He canned vegetable soup and green beans and tomatoes. He made relish and dill pickles and grew popping corn for me and my college friends. The summer he died I helped him plant 120 broccoli plants in the garden and we fertilized them with some of my orchid fertilizer. Those plants produced so much broccoli, we couldn’t even keep up with harvesting it. He had to give it away to friends. He planted bamboo in the backyard and prickly chestnut trees along the street. Those chestnut trees were the end of us going barefooted in the summer.

I’ve been sitting in the swing searching my mind for special memories of him. He called me “Laney Girl” and was generous with hugs and I love yous. He bought me a unicycle. Made me many pairs of stilts from scraps of lumber. Taught me how to drive a car. He was probate judge of our county when I took my driver’s license test and he told the state trooper, as we walked out of the courthouse, to be sure and buckle his seat belt cause he’d be risking his life with me driving. Embarrassed me to death! He told an airline pilot once he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t bring his mother-in-law back from a trip. And yes, she heard that conversation.

He loved to eat at Morrison’s cafeteria and always put extra food on our trays he wanted to try. He could cook popcorn in a large boiler without a lid and was known for his delicious French fries and steaks. In college in one of my graphic design courses we had to construct a six foot kite. I remember he came to pick me up in his pickup up truck one weekend and we brought that kite home all the way from Wesleyan College in Macon, Georgia, and flew it off a hill up at the farm. Course it was a short flight and it tore up when it crashed to the ground but he cared enough to help me try to fly it. And I’ve never forgotten how we looked at each other when the kite took off into the sky. We were so proud!

He loved his grandchildren and was happiest with his family gathered around him. The night he died all of his children were here with him. He had a heart attack at the kitchen table and died as he fell from his chair to the floor. He was only 56 years old. We all miss him so much.

He’d be so proud of my little garden under the sunroom windows and would be thrilled with all his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren gathering here for family Christmas celebrations. I know he’s here in spirit. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

“She did not stand alone, but what stood behind her, the most potent moral force in her life, was the love of her father.” — Harper Lee