I’ll Stand By You
We all want our parents to live forever. Of all the people in the world to beat the odds stacked against him, I have always believed my dad would win. Always.
I know he won’t. Those odds are impossible. Still, it is the one shred of little-girl fantasy to which I cling. That my father will always be there. Saying outrageous things. Forcing me to shout to be heard. Telling his crazy stories, tales that fuel my own writing almost every day.
My father isn’t very secure. In fact, his constant refrain when I was growing up was, “You don’t love me no more, do you, Andra?” Even recent readers of this blog will divine that my father is a big personality. Used to adoration. Children don’t always know how to process that information when they’re young.
Few will doubt that I know what to do with it now.
I wish.
I wish my dad could live forever. That he might be around as long as I am, in all his glory. Able to say and do maddening things that, in the end, mean he is still with me.
An empty wish. I know.
So.
I will leave you with a story, as only Dad can tell it. One I never heard before last weekend.
There was this truck. The driver decided to go across that metal bridge. The one across the Hiwassee. Upriver from my Dad’s farm.
That truck hit that bridge, and it fell. Dropped that truck and its load of oranges into the middle of that river. I don’t even know how many oranges there was.
Well, it was January. That water was cold.
My Dad and I. We took a barge out into the river, and we loaded up as many oranges as we could gather. For weeks, we was finding oranges. Good and sweet. That cold water kept ‘em whole for us.
I’ll never forget those oranges.
I’ll never forget your oranges, Dad. I love you.
He sounds an excellent man, your Dad.
He is, Roger. Maddening and excellent.
I think that describes many parents.
Probably so.
Andra, your dad will be around as long as you tell these tales x
Thank you, Fiona. I needed that.
It’s hard to watch life move on sometimes. Love Roy’s stories.
We will have to try to get him to come to your party, Lou. I am begging him to come down here for Story Corps.
The loss of a parent is so hard because it is so much more – it is the loss of who conceived us, who brought us into the world, and it is the loss of being somebody’s child – this is why I believe that stories are so important. It is at the core of being human, and makes us less alone. You have a gift for storytelling, and you can make others understand not just how special your dad is, but remind us of how important our own parents are or were.
Thank you, Dave. Stories do not replace the people we lose, but I hope they bring them closer. I do hope this series brought your dad closer to you.
Your Daddy reminds me of my Daddy in so many ways… Fiona is so right. My heart is heavy today – your words ALWAYS touch me. Always. I’d love to meet your Daddy some day, but if that doesn’t happen in person, I feel I’ve already met him through your writings.
I wish he weren’t so squeamish about being recorded, Lori. We could do a hang out.
Of course he is maddening. Isn’t that a father’s due? And how could you be so in love with him if he weren’t so maddening? If he were just an normal ordinary guy, then he wouldn’t be so interesting. Or endearing. All goes together in one nice big package!
You time together sounds fun. And I am glad you are getting to write down some of the stories. Would hate for those to fade away.
It was good to get some new ones out of him. He repeats a lot of the same ones over and over. You understand.
I swannee. Those Tennessee stories. I love road trip stories.
My father was a story-teller, too, and my brother also has the gift. Here’s a link for you, Andra, to a story my brother told about my mother inventing the Hamlick Maneuver. Yes, in Tennessee.
http://ruthrawls.wordpress.com/2010/04/20/how-my-mother-invented-the-hamlick-maneuver/
Maybe it is something they put in the water up there. Great story.
I think it’s the distinguishing feature of Southerners. We don’t relate events, we tell stories about them.
It is a fun way to hear about the world.
Well that made me weep. Those of us who are lucky enough to still have our parents (or even one parent) are blessed indeed.
I’m sorry I made you cry, Jill, but I am glad you still have your mom and dad.
Oh, Andra, I can’t get too close to this one, my friend. Hits too, too close to home. But, good God, I KNOW how you feel. I know. And I know it deeply and profoundly. Precious, precious post! Please write more. It hurts, but it also helps to hear these stories. Weird.
Hugs,
Kathy
These stories are universal. I can only imagine the stories your dad could tell and the ones he couldn’t tell for occupational reasons. I love to read your writings about him, Kathy.
Every time I visit my mother, who is to all intents and purposes in excellent health, I realize that I have little time left. And at the same time I implore that she live until she’s greater than 100. To which she says, “I don’t want to live that long.”
We are at the time in life when we realize the truth of generations…each one bows to the next and “man is as grass.”
I loved this post for all these reasons. Keep on telling.
May she remain in excellent health for a long time to come, Cheryl.
I must say that you brought a tear to my eye. I am a lot older than you, Andra, and I still have the same fantasy. I’ve had to come a little closer to thinking realistically this year, but as much as I have a deeper “knowing” I also nurse the magical thinking. You’ve touched me very deeply this morning. We can all stand together. oxo
For now, I am glad your dad is doing better, Debra. Take him for lots of father-daughter ice cream. Those calories will never count. xo
I’m glad that you’re enjoying this special time with your father. Road trips are a wonderful way to connect.
I really didn’t want it to end. It was bittersweet to drop him off.
Wonderful post. Wonderful man.
Great daughter, too.
He made me.
My dad passed away when I was only 19. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him, miss him – or know that he is really always still with me. He was a good storyteller, like Roy is, and the stories are repeated, much like those oranges in the frozen river, Andra. Keep writing. Keep telling those stories. You’re the best.
Penny, it has been a blessing to hear how these Dad stories bring other fathers close. Thank you.
Trick him into Story Corps if you have to. Tell him they have the best biscuits and gravy and coffee ever.
He still hasn’t committed. Maybe I can trick him. He hates Charleston, so it takes a lot to get him to come visit.
Andra, you are so fortunate to have both your parents and your Dad is quite a character to make it even better.
On a sad note, we just returned from the funeral of “Nanny Lou” last night who was kind of a second mom to my wife. Don’t we all wish those close to us could live forever.
Please give your wife a hug from me, Howard.
Chills, the happy kind. Storytelling didn’t fall far from the tree in your family. Or maybe the bridge?
It was great to get that new story out of him. Several, actually, but that one was so poignant.
That’s a great story. May our parents last forever.
Here. Here.