My world took a nosedive on September 15, 2001, when my dad died. Nothing can prepare you for the grief. I was a daddy’s girl; I look like him and had a mole on my right hand in the same place he had one.
Nothing can prepare you for the grief.
Psychologist and author Ram Dass said, “We’re all just walking each other home.” But how many times have we had to say goodbye or let go too soon?
Dad was kind, supportive, patient, and diligent. He was a farmer at heart. He loved to plant and watch things grow: crowder peas, tomatoes, string beans, peppers, squash, and carrots. They were God’s and Dad‘s treasures from the earth.
Dad had sense of humor, told jokes, and mimicked the songs of Mario Lanza. He brought albums home and introduced us to a variety of music: classics, blues, jazz, and gospel music.
He enjoyed baking, and as he made lemon or apple pies in the kitchen, he challenged us to think, solve a math problem, or come up with an answer to a riddle.
He acknowledged the uniqueness of each of his four girls. For Pat, who loved to clip coupons and save money, he would discuss where to get a sale. Even now when Pat finds a penny, a dime, or a nickel on the ground, especially a shiny penny, it makes her think of Dad – pennies from heaven. He talked shopping and cooking with my younger sister Pauline. He often discussed leadership with Roberta.
I knew he loved collard greens and I love them too, especially with fresh tomatoes, vinegar, and onions as toppings.
On the night before that fateful call, Dad invited me to come by the house for greens, Mom’s fried chicken, and some cornbread. I had already eaten out, but Dad said, “I’ll put it in containers, and you can take it home.” I listened to the urging voice of my spirit and accepted the invitation.
When I arrived at our Southside Chicago childhood home, my mother opened the door and greeted me. Daddy was steps away in the living room, singing the Mississippi choir song, “Your Love and Mercy Brought me Through.”
He looked towards the white ceiling and continued to sing as I entered. His smile and a glance from his peripheral vision was his offering to me.
He finished his rendition of the song, and we both laughed and headed to the kitchen where he gave me his second offering: the gift of a story as he packed me a meal and my mom looked on. “When I was 16, I was in the street playing football. Two years later, I put down my football and picked up a gun.” Dad was in World War II and the Korean War.
Through the years, my mind travels back to the stories Dad left behind – stories of Dorrie Miller, racial discrimination in the army, and how a Jim Crow South impacted his life.
In the black community, experts say 80% of the fathers are missing from the homes, a fact that ignites my compassion. My parents sometimes had a rocky relationship, but death was the villain that separated Dad from our lives, not a need to answer the call of the streets, addiction, or an affair.
Dad was proud of his four girls and 11 grandchildren. He worked his full-time post office job for 40 years while he simultaneously worked part-time for 25 years at a retail store to make ends meet. He made sure that we had food, clothing, and shoes first. We knew from his actions, although he didn’t always express it with words, that we were loved.
He was a role model of what a man and a father should do and be. He showed up in our lives in good times and in challenging times.
Shortly after the World Trade Center collapsed, my world collapsed too. Days later, we stood at the gravesite, while Taps was being played and my dad was saluted. They handed my mom, his wife of 53 years, a folded flag. Dad will always be missed.
To the veterans, the fathers, the sons, the nephews, and all the men who stay in the battle of raising and loving their family, we salute you.
Happy Father’s Day!
Love you all,
Lucille Usher Freeman