My First Valentine

On this Valentine's Day, I'd like to tell you about my first Valentine.  I believe in doing so I will offer some insight into my forgiving nature where my father is concerned.

I actually can't tell you when I received my first Valentine because I can never remember not getting one--a card and/or some chocolate or flowers, a funny note...  Dad was just as thoughtful in his good deeds as in his bad--with me anyway.  He always put a lot of thought into making me feel special on special days, be it Valentine's Day, birthdays (except the one that he made me skip ;-)), Christmas and Hannukah since we celebrated both, any occasion that he thought I should feel special, he would make sure I felt special. 

My first Godiva chocolates were given to me by Dad, and whatever the gift, it came along with a note usually saying "Be Mine" with one of his many pet names for me (Kymus, Tilla, Aradomie, Fraymus, the list goes on and on) then signed "Love, Dad" or one of the pet names he had for himself like McFith (I believe this had a movie reference).  At any rate, it was real and it was kind and it made me feel special.

But it wasn't only on special days that Dad made me feel special--he was the only person in my life who showed me affection (okay, so they were very tight bear hugs that took my breath away, but they were hugs just the same, and I felt love behind them even if the words were never spoken), without me forcing it upon them.  I loved bed-time because I could force Mom, Dory, Gary, and Dave to hug me, but Dad did it quite often totally on his own. 

Just he and I would go for all day walks to get ice cream and while we walked we would talk and he would listen to me and ask me about school and my friends and my future. 

When I began to play the flute in 5th grade, he would ask me to "serenade" him.  Imagine a beginning floutist (much like a beginning violinist).  I know I sounded awful, but he would ask me to play song after song for him and close his eyes as if it were the most beautiful music he'd ever heard.  I got so good so quickly because of this, I was first flute when I entered middle school--beating out girls who'd been playing years longer than me.  Every new thing I tried, he encouraged me.  I still don't know if it was because he looked at me differently or because he realized the awful mistakes he'd made with my older siblings in forcing everything on them with punishments and belittling rather than encouragement.

As I said in an earlier post, Dad rarely held down a job so Mom worked long hours as a waitress.  Late at night when she would call for a ride home (she never drove) he would always take me with him and we would sing together along with the oldies station in the car, and he would tell me stupid jokes and sayings from when he was young like, "what a face, what a figure, two more legs and you'd look like Trigger" (Roy Rogers' horse), and he'd tell me to say "under the sheets" after every song title and we would laugh at how it changed the whole meaning of the songs.  He'd sing "Mrs. Brown you've got a lovely daughter", "Henry the 8th", "Raggmopp" and "101 pounds of fun".  He'd point out the advice in songs like "if you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife" (not really sure here if he wanted me to remain ugly or be a lesbian, but I listened intently at his words of wisdom.  I think he was talking about his own life, really.).

Also on these drives he would let me shift the gears as he drove and he'd always have to stop at a convenience store for some item or another and bring me out a "prize", usually marshmallow snowballs or some other such yummy thing.  I did love that time together.  And I did love Dad.  Here's a poem I wrote many years ago, shortly after his death that may put it into perspective a bit:

Tilla Fray, Kymus Arodomie.
These are the names
When you were happy
You used for me.
When you were happy
There was nowhere in the world
I'd rather have been
Than with you, Dad.
I reminisce--
About our walks,
Our talks,
Your bear hugs,
The way you made me feel loved.
I miss you Dad.
I miss the fun we had.
And I understand the bad,
Was meant for good.

Once I got to the point where I was no longer afraid of him--and he knew it--I could say absolutely anything to him.  I would argue for hours with him trying to convince him to get a job.  After hours of banter, he would finally cave and tell me that he would look "tomorrow."  Tomorrow never came as far as the job hunt, but it was still a victory for me.  Those sessions, where I learned to choose each word ever so wisely, taught me how to convince just about anyone just about anything.  A very good skill to have in one's arsenal.  It also taught me how to sooth the most savage of beasts.  In my last job, I had a boss who was infamous for his ill treatment of workers.  By the time I left that job, he would call me to his office (or those below him but above me would do so), just to talk him into a good mood.  And I would.  Every time.  I became a master because of Dad.  

I know that Dad was very mean, very often.  I also know he was mentally ill.  And I know that he was a man who knew right from wrong and chose wrong much too often.  But I forgive him.  And I thank him for his part in making me who I am--my brook has a much more beautiful melody for all of the rocks he put into it.  I only wish Dory, Gary and Dave had happy memories of him too because it's the happy memories that help to wear away the edges on the more jagged rocks.   Still some damn fine music though!

Jen ;-)