Memoir of a Man

My Dad, by C.J. Heck

Memoir of a Man

I woke up this morning feeling homesick for my dad. So many times, I’ve reached for my cell phone to call him —he’s on speed dial, you know, but then I remember … they don’t have cell phones, or cell towers in heaven.

When I think back, the man was ten feet tall. He had all the answers to all my questions and he could fix anything that broke. In this child's eyes, he was the smartest man in the world and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

If I got an achy bruise, I had to soak it in Epsom Salts and it got better. If I got a cut, he washed it, then painted it with Daddy's red paint (Mercurochrome), added a Band-Aid, and a kiss for the top, and the cut got better, too.

He was a quiet man. He hardly ever raised his voice, even with six children, an assortment of foster kids over the years, plus our friends hanging out. Most fathers would blow up once in a while, but he never did. He didn’t feel the need to.

Mama knew just how to use his gentle temperament to keep us in line, too. “Oh Catherine, your dad would be so disappointed to see how short that skirt is. He has high standards for you girls and he expects you to respect them. Go on —back upstairs and change. That skirt should go to your younger sister.”

Through Daddy’s patience, the six of us learned how to drive. Mama tried, bless her heart, but she was way more high strung than Daddy.

One day, Mama thought I should have slowed down for something in traffic. She stomped on her invisible floor brake so hard, she sprained her ankle. She gladly handed the reins over to Daddy.

Along with the manual’s regular driving rules, Daddy taught one extra rule which was never to be broken. If we were in a car, any car, we had better be wearing a seat belt. But that was okay. We knew it was because he loved us and wanted us to be safe.

If we were driving and weren’t wearing one, we lost our driving privileges for two weeks. If we broke the rule, he never said a word —he didn’t have to. When the guilty party got home, Daddy met them at the front door, his hand outstretched, and the keys were dropped into his palm. Busted!

I could never figure out how he always knew … I’m 75 and I still double check my seat belt every time I get in a car, especially if I’m behind the wheel … just in case.

We all suspected he would one day petition the church to add another line and number to the Ten Commandments:

"#11 Thou Shalt Always Wear Thy Seat Belt".

Daddy passed on to us so many of his favorite life lessons:

Don’t live life so seriously. You’ll miss all the fun in the small things: puddles for splashing; mud for mud pies; mirrors for making funny faces; and a hug to fix anything a Band-Aid can't cover up.

“Our days are all counted in minutes and it's important to make the most of them; for who knows, our life might be metered in hours.”

Here’s another message that is very clear: “If you ever wonder what your life might be worth, love is how you measure it.”

I miss and love you, Daddy. I’m still not ready to take you off my speed dial ...

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