I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot lately.

Well, rather, I’ve been thinking about why I’ve been thinking about my dad.
—
I kind of blame Memorial Day.
There’s just something about graveyards that reminds people of the dead.  Course, my dad was in the Army for a while too.

I don’t think anyone in the family remembers him as fondly as I do or, sometimes, remember him at all.

He was a tall man, probably about as tall as my brother.  I’m not sure how tall he is, but I know it’s at least 6 feet, given that I’m 5’7ish.  His hair was thick, curly, and dark brown.   At times, it almost looked black.   When I was little, there were very slight gold tones which became replaced with silver as I became older.  No matter how old I got, one thing never changed — the scars from where the nuns beat him when he was orphaned by my grandfather.  His hair never completely grew to cover the abuse.

His eyes, which he chose to hid behind black-rimmed coke-bottle classes, were an intelligent 1000 leagues deep.  I could tell just by glancing what type of mood he was in.  No matter how he tried to hide it, goodwill and intelligence would be oh-so obvious.   Although, most of the time, he projected irritation, tiredness, and, occasionally, sadness.

For as long as I could remember, he worked in a factory.   Most of the time, it was two factories at once, punching in 90+ hours a week.  For the longest time, I didn’t consider my dad white.  His skin maintained a year-round tan from the heat of the machines that made block engine pieces for Cummings.    His other job was at a veneer place in Edinburg.  That place definitely wasn’t clean by any stretch of the imagination.   I guess I figured that after the years, the grime just became one with his skin.

But, he had these hands.  The palms where wide and fingers long.  I know I’m super biased, but I figured that he could have played the piano with those hands.   Instead, they where covered with callouses from his jobs.  I’d imagine the skin was so thick and ancient that he had no feeling in those places.  They often held an unfiltered Pall Mall.  Unfiltered because filters are for sissies.

My dad certainly wasn’t a saint.
He tried.  I know he tried.    When I was in band in middle school, he’d do his very best to show up at every concert.   I could tell exactly where he was despite my position in the very back banging on the drums.     I could tune into his snoring.

At his expectations… he didn’t have to say anything… I started working in the fields as soon as I able.   I think that was about 13.    Pulling tassels off corn in during the hottest months was not exactly pleasant, but it was something that I could do and get paid for.   My first “formal” part-time high school job was at Checkers, a fast food place with two drive-ins.   My first day of work was the very first day after my 15th birthday.

I desperately wanted to prove to him that I was just as strong a worker as he was.   Eventually, I even worked in numerous factories.  I went to college.   I have two degrees.  Still, whatever I did, I still felt like I was coming up short.  I just could not make him happy.

At times like this, I wish I had some comforting words of wisdom or praise.  “Atta girl.”  “I’m glad you are my daughter.”   Even, maybe, “I love you,” but that didn’t happen.

Instead, in my head, I can hear his voice in perfect tone…  “You don’t listen.   You just don’t listen.”

And, I guess, those are my words of wisdom.

You know, even after all these years, I guess he was right about me.
I still don’t listen.  I have to try things my own way.   I have figure out how to defeat my personal demons.  I do my damnedest not to rely on anyone… which is part of why my current situation is a bit degrading.

At the same time, I need people to rely on me, as my brother and sister did while my parents where at work.  I need to feel needed for personal validation.  I also  have to feel independent.   That way, I can do what I perceive to be the best for everyone.  I’m sure my dad shaped that aspect of my personality to somehow.    He didn’t have to work 90 hours a week.  He wanted to.  He independently made that decision.

Following in his footsteps, I made the decision to take on all of those classes and schools.    Sure, it wasn’t factory work, but I think he got sleep than I did.

Sucks being a daddy’s girl, I guess.

It’s probably a good thing that my brother and sister don’t really acknowledge him.  They don’t talk about him.  When I ask, they look uneasy.

But, that’s fine.
It’s okay.   They’re doing awesome right now.  They work.  They’re loyal.   They’re good people.

I just wonder if dad would have been proud of us….  and I’m not holding my breathe.  I’m still living at home, ain’t I?  I’m in debt, not married, no family of my own.    I could never make him a grandfather.

Guess it doesn’t matter.
Dead is dead.
— but I can’t help but wonder.