“The admission price for the memories we cherish is paid for in very unmemorable car rides.”
Jon Quitt
And… blueberry pancakes
The creek behind our house was the ideal location. Down the way a bit, was a cottonwood tree with huge limbs and an abiding trunk that would uphold our treehouse for years to come.
I honestly cannot recall what we talked about while working on our treehouse, but I do remember the time he took with me to haul up lumber and hammer out a place for my sister and me to play. Break time offered a delectable snack of cheese and crackers on the newly laid treehouse floor. It wouldn’t be long before summer sleepovers would be enjoyed by all our friends.
The same tree became an optimal spot for the many funerals performed over our dearly departed pets. He would stop his work and walk down to the creek with a shovel in his hand. A teary-eyed little girl would be trailing behind. After the burial was finished, he would remove his cowboy hat (the one with “life” stained inside the rim) and with my mother and sister present, he would say a few mournful words like, “Well, Lord. Here we are to put to rest a loyal friend. He was a good dog and we thank you for the time we shared with him. Now it is his time to run and play in the great wild blue yonder. Help our hearts to heal as we move forward. Amen.”
It has only been in my adult years that I ever knew he did all of the theatrics for us girls. His heart was never really broken, but he made a big deal because he knew ours was. It is insignificant moments just like this that brand a Daddy; that mark our children. It builds and constructs just like a treehouse.
Growing up, early morning outings for breakfast were extra special. It was a time Dad and I shared all by ourselves. Even as an adult, his blueberry pancakes became a delicacy on Friday mornings; thick, yet light and fluffy; warm with butter and syrup. The pancakes always went perfectly with the conversation we had; sometimes deep and meaningful and sometimes it didn’t go much further than the syrup dripping off my fork, but it was our time and I loved every minute of it (still do).
When I was about five or six, Dad drove an old beat-up truck. It was all he could afford at the time. The door latches would sometimes not catch all the way. Driving me to school one morning, I leaned against the door without thinking and he turned a corner. The door flung open. In milliseconds strong hands grasped my little arm and pulled me across the seat. There was not a thought that ever crossed his mind. Pure instinct reached out and grabbed me.
I never understood how a reaction could happen that fast until Eva fell off a playground slide. She was at the top and flipped off. Without thinking, Chuck caught her upside down by the leg before she hit the ground.
Children do not forget being rescued by their daddy. It is not the incident they remember but the strong quick hands that catch them. Protection comes built into Daddies. It’s a part of the job. Whether it is internal or external danger, a Daddy is going to protect his family.
Although I never called him Daddy, I had a father just like this. My dad, or Pops, as I call him in my later years, is a giant in my eyes. Not because he stood so tall, but because he kept his word to me, even in the smallest of ways. He took time with me and taught me what a father looks like.
A father’s role is irreplaceable. It comes programmed inside every child to look up to their Daddy. That is why the presence of a father, the right model of a father, is so crucial in the home.
Our children need Daddy to show up. Not just at the weekend birthday party or the pumpkin patch for pictures, but for horseback rides across the living room floor, homework, and under the hood of an old fixer-upper car. It’s 2 a.m. feedings, kitchen clean-up, and discipline tactics that are less than publicized moments, but it is where Daddy is needed the most.
When Eva comes flying into the house to tell me about her special time she has spent with her daddy, my heart sores. It is not because Daddy is perfect (just ask Mommy) it is because REAL Daddies are so good at their job their little darlings can’t find a man that measures up to him. Even so, it will be out on special date nights, when Eva gets to go and Shirley Temples are ordered, that she will learn how to find her prince.
Any man can father a child but it takes a special man to be called Daddy.
My Dad still makes blueberry pancakes when I come for a visit. Now we have added pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse with chocolate chips and sprinkles for the grandkids. They think that’s quite something.
Whether your blueberry pancakes look like building a treehouse, taking quiet walks, or special date nights out, with Shirley Temples all around, make sure it doesn’t come from a box. Instant will not have the same taste. Our conversation was scratch-made over bacon frying, flour sifting, and eggs cracking. Take your time. Hammer out the relationship one board at a time.
Welcome Home
P.S. The treehouse still rests in the cottonwood tree some thirty years later… scratch-made.
“Listen my son to a father’s instruction; pay close attention and gain understanding. For I give you sound teaching; do not abandon my directive.” Proverbs 4:1-2
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