Daddy's Girl

It’s been years since my dad died. We were caught off-guard. It all happened so quickly, or at least it seemed like it did.

Dad was a tall, husky but not fat man with light brown hair, and soft brown eyes. He was very handsome and had a smile that could light up the room. That’s the way I will remember him for the rest of my life.

I remember that as a child, he wasn’t always there for my siblings and me. Although he tried, work very often interfered. My dad was a carpenter/stagehand/scenery-maker who worked for NBC. During our childhood years, all television shows were live. While movie shows were popular, the taping of television shows had not yet been introduced to public audiences.

Too frequently, he’d be responsible with a few other men for “working the show,” which involved moving the scenery from storage to stage and back again. Two men, one of whom was my dad, had the responsibility of raising and lowering the stage curtain as needed.

When the “property man” called in sick, the stagehands took turns filling his spot until his return to work. A “prop” person, as they were called, had the sole responsibility of ensuring all the props were in their proper places. For instance, if a vase was used in a scene, he had to make sure that the same vase was in the same spot the next time that scene was used again, and again. Yes, there was a “prop recorder” who had the distinct job of writing down all the props used and where. (There were no computers yet for this job.) She’d then turn over her list to the director, who then, turned the list over to the head stagehand. Everyone had to initial the written record, even the stagehand who had the final act of placing the object in its place.

Dad loved every aspect of his job even if it often took him away from his family. Yet, somehow, even as small children, we understood what he was doing. There were many times, we were able to watch the shows he was working. We never saw him on TV, but always knew he was behind the change of scenery. What a thrill it was just knowing our dad was right behind the curtain, waiting for his next cue.

When dad didn’t have to work a show, I can still remember waiting on the stoop of our apartment building for my him to step off the bus which stopped at our corner. In order for dad to go to work at NBC, he needed to ride the bus from our corner, ten blocks to the subway station, and then ride the train into Manhattan. Then, at 4:30pm, he’d reverse the ride to get back home.

The day I graduated from high school, he, and the other carpenters, had to work. A special made-for-TV show was being produced and they needed to begin making the scenery. As much as I wanted to brood, I also knew Dad was just as disappointed as I was. I didn’t want him to see my disappointment. He asked his friend to “cover” for him explaining my graduation and promising he’d get to work as quickly as possible.

Yes, dad was there to see me receive my diploma. He waited outside the auditorium for me. Knowing he had to work, I was surprised and extremely happy to see him. He quickly kissed my cheek, gave me a tight hug and a bouquet of flowers, then just as quickly, turned and left for the nearest subway station.

As I said, there were times when he couldn’t be around for us while we were growing up, but he was there enough to make his mark on our lives.

“Listen to your mother!” “Never lie!” “Respect your elders but remember, peers need to earn respect. It’s never free!”

One thing he repeatedly said was, “If you’re thinking of doing something that you’re afraid your parents will find out about, then it’s something you should NOT be doing!”

He’d always kiss out checks finishing with, “Make me proud!”

Somewhere along the way toward adulthood, I know I must have disappointed him many times. My divorce, for instance, I’m sure was a crushing blow to him and although he never said as much, I’m sure it hurt him to acknowledge my first failure. At least, that’s the way I looked at it.

As my children grew, dad and I got a bit closer. Because of the responsibilities I had rearing my children alone, he saw a change in me of which he eagerly approved.

I tried doing things that I’m sure made him proud. I took adult classes at the local school to teach me carpentry (for women), auto mechanics (for women), first aid and CPR. I always felt these courses might come in handy and they were something I could, in turn, teach my sons.

All dad every wanted for his children was the best. He wanted us to have things that he couldn’t have when he grew up. He wanted us to have things he couldn’t afford to get us when we were younger. He also wanted us to have pride in ourselves and whatever we did.

“If you can’t look yourself in the mirror and say, “I like that person,” then you’re doing something wrong.”

There were times when the harder I tried, the more I’d mess up. But dad understood. Especially later on. He knew life was hard and everyone must fall on his or her face at least one time during life. I just wanted him to be proud of the fact that even if I did “fall,” I could pick myself up and start again.

In 1986, just one week before dad’s 62nd birthday, he suffered a major stroke which left him paralyzed on one side. After many long grueling months and much therapy, he began to walk. His limp was extreme. It embarrassed him when mom had to cut the meat on his plate so he could eat his dinner. Yet, through it all, he was still always there for us. Not so much in the physical sense, but emotionally. Being alone, house repairs were left to me. I always knew I could call dad and he’d walk me through anything, step by step. On weekends, I would drive to his house and bring him to mine (mom never obtained a driver’s license) so he could inspect my handiwork that he explained to me on the phone. He was always pleased.

In 1993, dad was walking from his bathroom to his bedroom. It was approximately eleven pm. Almost at the bedroom door, mom heard a loud thud. Dad was on the floor. He’d suffered a mini stroke. As he lost his balance and fell, he hit the bottom of the wall with mighty force. Mom called 9-1-1. Dad was 71 years old.

We were thankful he was still alive, but still I had a nagging feeling that the “next one” would be the one to claim him forever. We tried not to think of that as the ambulance took him away.

The hospital staff made him comfortable while they x-rayed and scanned his body. Yes, dad had a mini stroke, but the fall broke his hip. Mom signed the consent for the orthopedic surgeon who would arrive the next day.

The following day, after an additional examination from the orthopedic surgeon and additional tests were made, the doctor called mom and suggested they meet in dad’s hospital room.

“Something” had shown up on the x-ray that was not normal, and he needed permission to investigate it as he repaired dad’s hip. Mom and dad agreed.

The further testing revealed advanced colon cancer. His diagnosis was that dad had about six months to one year to live.

We were devastated but not as devastated as to how wrong his diagnosis had been. Dad didn’t live six months to a year – he lived only six more weeks following the diagnosis.

The years have come and gone since dad’s death. I eventually remarried. My sons grew up, married, and have families of their own.

I know dad would like my husband. Before his retirement, he was also a carpenter. Dad would like my son’s wives. They are remarkable women who would make any mother-in-law proud.

While dad is no longer here in the physical sense to express his pride and joy in his family, I know he’s looking down from heaven smiling as he’s thinking, “Yep, she did good for herself.”

And each day, I can look at a picture of him and say, “Thank you, dad, for your solid advice. It worked! YOU worked!”