When the Corn's Done Poppin'

After writing my last blog about my father I didn't realize how cathartic it would be. I didn't feel badly about writing it. It was factual and it was accurate. At least for me. As they say, "Feelings are neither right or wrong... they just are." But I did feel like I'd finally, truly, buried my father. Then something happened.

Some other memories started to present themselves. It was kind of like how popcorn works. Deep inside the kernel of dried corn is the slightest drop of moisture. As the heat rises the moisture begins to boil which causes it to explode, turning it inside out. A little butter and salt and you're ready for a good movie. Or, in my case, a dreary drama. But when the explosion happened for me and when all the popcorn was gone from the bowl, there were several unpopped kernels remaining, as there usually are. For me, those kernels were the good memories. The things I remember about my father that were once fond memories, but now... now they felt warm inside and tangible enough to hold. These weren't going to pop.  And I felt these good memories every bit as strongly as I felt the painful ones. So I wanted to share a few of them here.

my folks were avid  Dodger fans

Once, while watching a baseball game on TV, I was sitting right next to my dad on the couch. He suddenly, for some unknown reason, put his arm around me and gave me a big hug and squeezed me tight. Then, he went right back to the game. I remember it now as if I'm sitting next to him on that couch. I can hear the sound he made too. It was a great hug.




At dinner one evening the three of us girls, as I recall it anyway, were talking about cute boys. I think Cathy may have been teasing Sherry about having a crush on Don Grady (may he rest in peace) from My Three Sons. That sounds pretty much like how it would have gone down. But the rest of this memory is crystal clear in my head now. I piped up saying that I thought my dad was the handsomest man in the world. And I meant that. Next thing I remember is him reaching into his pocket and pulling out a quarter. He slapped it in front of me with a big grin on his face. Even now it makes me smile. Everyone immediately started back-peddling, agreeing that Dad was, indeed, the best looking man alive. Too late. He pushed back his chair and got up, still wearing that sly grin on his face, and he left the table. When I left the table I was a little richer and felt a little happier. It only cost a quarter, but that memory is priceless. 

Father's Day, and every other gift-giving holiday, was always a challenge for me with my father. I don't recall ever getting him a gift that he liked enough to comment on it besides saying "thank you". Ever. I don't know if any of us kids did. But one year, as an adult, my husband, kids and I went to see my Dad on Father's Day. He was outside walking around checking out his lawn when I walked up and handed him a small bouquet of tootsie pops saying, "Happy Father's Day, POP!" Emphasizing the POP. (guffaw) He took the candy bouquet from my hand and threw his arms around me and gave me a big warm hug. Score! That was a great day. My dad didn't care about gifts. I think he preferred to feel endeared. Cathy, btw, has an awesome story about some of my dad's old shoes. I hope she shares it sometime. It's a good story.

Over the years, these have been some childhood memories that I have recalled now and again. But they have never, ever tugged at my heart or brought tears to my eyes like they do now. I'm so grateful that God saw fit to finally allow me to bury my father, and now remember some happy times with my dad.