I had just come back from a brisk, morning walk on Butterfly Beach. The wind had blown away the clouds and rain from the previous day and although it was a bit windy at first, it was fresh and clear and beautiful. I gave Mother-Nature some well-deserved compliments on the balance, color and splendor of the whole scene. Even the wreaked boat that had come to rest on the rocks towards the east end of the beach was a nice touch.
I always think of my father when I am on the beach, especially so, on a blustery winter day. My father loved the ocean. He was a fisherman at heart and worked as a deep-sea salvage diver in the navy during World-War II. He wasn’t a fan of sitting on the beach. That was saved for my mother. She loved the sun, but my dad loved all of the drama, mystery and bounty the ocean had to offer.
As a little girl, it was a special treat to go fishing with my father. He would wake me early, well before dawn, to ride in his green pick-up truck the fifty miles or so from our house in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains to launch our little boat into the bay off Newport Beach. I didn’t so much like the fishing part as I did this special time with my Dad.
My Mother would pack a lunch for us the night before that consisted of sandwiches on soft white bread with crisp lettuce. The best part of lunch was the home-made, waxed paper-wrapped chocolate-chip cookies with walnuts. My Father carried a thermos of hot coffee for himself and a thermos of cold milk for me. After lunch I would take a nap in the bow of the boat, covered with my dad's scratchy old army blanket that had come to smell of fish.
On that particular morning before my walk, I was looking for my prescription sunglasses and while I did not find them, I came across one of my Father’s old handkerchiefs. I brought it to my nose to see if I could still smell him. I could not. Still, I tucked the handkerchief into the pocket of my jacket then left for my beach-walk.
My father always carried a clean white handkerchief. He had an abundance of them since handkerchiefs were the go-to-gift of my sister and I, nearly every Christmas of our lives. Socks and handkerchiefs, that’s what we gave him, year after year, after year. My Father was a gentleman. He was quick to offer his handkerchief to a lady in tears or a ruddy-faced kid with a green snotty nose. He didn’t wait to be asked, he just pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over. Skinned knees, or elbows were also gently swabbed or bandaged with daddy’s hankies.
When my father died nearly fifteen years ago, I asked my mother for his socks and handkerchiefs. “What? Why would you want those old things?” She offered me some new ones that had not yet been opened, but I quietly reached for the soft, folded aged ones my father had worn on his feet and carried in his pocket. I slept in his socks and wore them around the house for the first few years after his death. I kept his old fishing hat and some of his favorite fishing shirts too. A year ago I finally gave away his favorite sweater with the patches on the elbows but I still have a drawer full of his handkerchiefs.
There is comfort in these old squares of cotton. Just feeling them in my pocket that day made me feel protected. Like I could handle anything. My nose always runs when I take my walks in the morning. The wind, the sun, just being awake, makes it drip, drip, drip like a faucet. If I were in trouble, I could wave the hankie like a flag. If it were too hot and sunny I could make a bandana or a sunshade. If I had to cry, I could pour my sorrows into the pillow of the cloth. My daddy would be there.
These are the little bread -crumbs that guide me through the forest of life. Memories of having been loved, as only a parent can love. Here I go again, being grateful!
My life is so glamorous! Lucky for me, it is just not fair!!
What a beautiful piece -- it was particularly moving for me today as it is my father's birthday == he died in 1957 and was born in 1897
I only have a few memories of him which I cherish
Love, Brigid
Posted by: Brigid Makiri | 03/27/2010 at 06:52 AM