From “Together: Thoughts and Stories About Living in Community”
“Who wants a Fudgsicle?” That’s what Dad asked enthusiastically from the kitchen on a visit with my parents. It was a familiar question, and I readily responded as I always have: “I do.”
When I was a kid it wasn’t unusual for Dad to stop at the neighborhood 7-Eleven to cash a check and pick up whatever else was needed. And more often than not, especially on Sunday nights after church, he’d come out of the store with all of that and a handful of Fudgsicles. In case you aren’t familiar, Fudgsicles are chocolate ice cream bars on a stick and once were sold individually in big floor freezers at convenience stores. Maybe they still are.
When we got home, we’d sit around the kitchen table and Dad would hand out the Fudgsicles, which we’d unwrap and eat. It became one of those unremarkable family traditions that you don’t really notice until you’ve not done it for years and your father suddenly invites you to indulge again. But back then it was such a regular thing that on one occasion after my sister died, we gasped a little when, as Dad passed out the ice cream bars, he realized he had bought five when only four were needed.
That was on my mind one recent night as I ate the Fudgsicle in the same way I did as a kid. I nibbled down one side and then down the other until I had a slim chocolate ice cream bar that was easier to handle. It was culinary memory and muscle memory all at once. It also was a sweet memory of the small, simple, subtle ways my dad has always taken care of his family.
My dad has never been one of those overzealous fathers who jumps in the middle of everything. He was never a booster club member, but he was always there for the band concerts and the halftime shows. He was not a scoutmaster, but he didn’t miss the courts of honor. What’s more, he’d volunteer to pick up a load of us from summer camp and drive us home—with the windows down, enduring our reek from a week’s worth of sweat and smoke.
Dad was the go-to guy when I procrastinated on a school project. I remember a Sunday afternoon when he typed out a research paper I had handwritten. He never edited or questioned my words; he just punched out what I had on his manual typewriter. He was a great typist, but he was a better writer. He composed a monthly letter and essay to his father and uncles and later to my brother and me. I learned from his words, and I didn’t realize until later that I was also learning the discipline of writing—of doing it regularly. He also taught me the power of writing. His only published book, Once There Were Three, about the death of my sister, is still healing lives today.
Dad taught in unconventional ways. When we were kids, he’d spread a blanket on the ground at night and point out the constellations he learned as an Air Force navigator. Later, when I wanted to explore the cosmos myself, he let me spend my life savings of twenty dollars on model rockets.
A friend recently saw Dad at the car wash, cleaning up not his but my mother’s car. He’s always been good about that. He’s a beast with a vacuum cleaner, too, and for better or worse, so am I.
Dad taught me the importance of dignity and privacy. In the sixth grade, when it was time to see the infamous films about reproduction, I was so embarrassed that I put the permission slip on Dad’s dresser without saying a word. He signed it and put it back on my dresser without saying a word.
When my sister died and Dad’s world fell apart, he kept his faith and kept the family going. When my world fell apart, his faith fed mine. He didn’t try to make things better because he knew better than anyone that he couldn’t do that. He knew the weight of loss, and his silent presence helped me carry my load.
When I moved to Dallas in 1983, Dad went with me to look for apartments and didn’t raise any alarms when I chose one on the third floor. In fact, he helped me move my furniture. He was fifty at the time, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have done that for anyone when I was fifty.
When I was eager to get engaged the first time around, Dad quietly loaned me the cash to pay off the ring and acted like he’d forgotten about it when I repaid him months later. And even though I wandered off the Baptist farm and married a Catholic, he never said don’t do it. He found plenty of common ground and stood firmly on it with me.
When I found love again, Dad cheered me on and welcomed LeAnn with open arms. And now he buys Fudgsicles by the box so there are plenty for everyone.