Daddy Was A Saver

Daddy Was A Saver

My Daddy was a “saver.” A procurer of particulars...a frugal forager. It was probably because he was a product of the Depression, but for whatever reason, if you needed ‘it,’ he had it, at least one and an alternate.

When Daddy passed away we found boxes full of souvenirs, balls of twine, ink pens, jars of nails and business cards. We found his report cards, measuring tapes, hundreds of bank statements and thousands of photographs labeled neatly into chronological albums. There were boxes, bags, and myriad other containers full of his mementos.   

My brother and I waded through his things sometimes laughing ...sometimes crying. Towards the end of our sorting, my brother came across every one of Daddy’s report cards from first grade through college, held together by a large, old, faded red rubber band.  We bantered across to each other, “You take the report cards!” “No, YOU take them!” Still, we filled large, black Hefty bags with things to give away or dispose of. His obsessive ‘saving’ wore us out. Sometimes, as we discarded, I whispered a prayer, “I’m sorry Daddy, we just have to let some things go,” hoping he understood.

Daddy saved his clothing, saying “I’ll use it to paint in.” Much preferring to keep everything instead of giving it away or throwing it away, his underwear was mostly worn so thin you could read the newspaper through them. His khaki pants had stains and tiny holes as did his everyday shirts, even though when he was working his dress shirts and pants went to the cleaners. He wanted to save everything: time, money, and things. He was progressive with his restore, reuse, and recycle.

I have to admit it wore off on me a little, as I brought home nine boxes of Daddy’s things after he died. Nine boxes of things I simply could not throw away or donate. Nine boxes of things that Daddy had thought worthy to save, like a large, flat metal wrench paperweight with his initials etched on it. Nine boxes of things I set in my garage and did not touch for ten years.

Last year, with my husband’s insistence,  I went through a box of Daddy’s things that I had saved from ten years ago. When I brought it home, I thought I would go through it right away. But ten years had passed, and I had just found the strength to open one box.

Inside were my and my brother’s report cards, Baptism announcements, college essays, school pictures and more. I found an old, faded manila envelope, sealed with a piece of tape and enclosed were letters and cards my brother and I had sent Daddy through the years; Father’s Day cards, poems, and notes we had written him. Behind those cards were letters tied with a string….our letters to Santa Claus.

I unfolded one pristine piece of notebook paper, and I was transported, as I read my brother’s childish handwriting. 

           Dear Santa, I hope that I have been good enough to deserve these things I want. I would like a bulldog tank, an electric football game and a boy scout nap sack. My sister would like a jewelry box, a ballarena doll, a girl cowboy suit and play doe, please. From: Jimmy and Nancy. December 16, 1958

This letter was written one month before our mother passed away. My brother was eight and I was four years old.  Not all of our letters to Santa were saved, just this one and the ones the year after she died.  A stillness came over me as I read my brother’s words, “I hope that I have been good enough to deserve these things.” The words of a child in pain.

My Dad wasn’t always good at professing his love. He wasn’t the sentimental, mushy type. But, after he was gone, I saw his tender side amongst the fourteen retractable measuring tapes and boxes of Navy war memorabilia. The cards and notes his children had sent and letters to Santa obviously touched his heart, although we never knew it. His heart was inside this box that took me ten years to open. And, suddenly, all of this stuff he had ‘saved,’ became a piece of him...a bridge to the other side, where he was standing, arms open wide, saying, “See? I have always loved you.” 

Going through Daddy’s things, even ten years later, made me feel close to him. I often felt his presence or smelled his Old Spice as I walked through my house. One weekend, my husband and I went to east Texas to visit his family.  We had stayed at the Hampton Inn and Sunday morning, before leaving to go back home, I headed into the lobby of the hotel sitting area to get a cup of coffee.

“Good morning!” the desk clerk said cheerily. It was 6:00 a.m. Everything was softly lit, and I was the only patron wandering the hallway ...just the ambiance I needed to sit quietly and wake up. I had my books and writing pad as I headed straight to the coffee: two pumps of hazelnut creamer, ¾ cup Robust and ¼ cup Decaf.

 I sat down and got situated with my coffee and book. I propped my feet up on an empty chair and suddenly felt a presence or some kind of energy nearby. A shiver went through me, and I wondered if they had just turned on the air conditioner. I took a long breath in savoring the blend of hazelnut and coffee aroma, and finally, taking a sip, my eyes glanced over the top of my coffee cup, and I saw him. Across the room, directly opposite me, sat an older gentleman. He seemed relaxed as he sat with perfect posture, looking straight at me. He had my Daddy’s eyes.

My Daddy’s eyes were hazel, not really green, yet with flecks of gold they looked soft and warm. He could dress you down with a stern, cold look or smile with those hazel eyes and make you feel like a million dollars. It was always up to him. He had the power.

Seeing my daddy’s eyes in a stranger scared me at first, and then I felt this warmth inside, heating the blood in my veins. He was dressed in frayed khaki pants, a plaid shirt, and a tattered baseball cap, the very clothes Daddy had saved to paint in. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, but his eyes went right through me. For a split second, I wanted to cry “Daddy!” and go to him for a hug and a whiff of his Old Spice aftershave. I wanted to take up where we left off and say, “How are you? Where have you been?” But I knew the answers, so I diverted my eyes back to my book. “Don’t stare. Don’t stare,” I said to myself.

I didn’t want to stare. I just wanted one more peek into my Daddy’s eyes to perhaps feel his love and finally, his acceptance. When I dared to look up, he was gone, vanished from the room. There was a voice inside that begged me to follow him, yet I sat completely still, totally rattled.

As if on cue, the lobby breakfast area began to come alive with sleepy guests wanting a waffle and hot coffee. I glanced around wondering if anyone saw what had just happened. Did they, too, see the gentleman in the baseball cap and plaid shirt? I walked over to the sliding doors going outside to see if he was still there, but the sidewalk was empty.

I’m not at all sure what to think or how to feel about my encounter that morning, although I do feel a strange peace and warmth as I remember it now. Was Daddy wanting to see me, too, just one more time? Was this his final visitation to let me know it was ok to let go of all the ‘things’ he had saved and keep only what mattered to me?

Maybe it really is true that the eyes are the window to the soul, and if that is so, I saw his love for me in those fast, few minutes. I felt it. Strangely, even though no words were spoken, none were needed.

My daddy has been gone from this world for thirteen years, and yet I continue to see him in these unexplainable ways. There is a raucous group of blue jays that come to our bird feeder every evening at happy hour. One of the jays is larger and louder than the rest and is always the last to leave our yard. He will sit on the bird bath and look straight into our family room window, waiting for me to look back. Then he flies away. I always say, “Goodnight, Daddy. See you tomorrow.”

Perhaps my encounters could be explained away by a scientist or a Doctor of Psychology, but I would not be swayed. I don’t want to be. I choose to believe that even though Daddy couldn’t express his feelings easily during his time on earth, he is trying his best to make sure I know I am not alone. He’s trying to tell me that it’s ok to let go of the jar of bent nails he meant to straighten or the slide rule he used in college.

 I think Daddy understands now that remembering the warmth in his hazel eyes means more than a box of ‘congratulations on your retirement’ cards from forty years ago. I feel my Daddy’s eyes watching over me and that is all I ever really wanted.