Tag Archives: Father

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With the Father’s Day celebrations taking place today I am reminded that it has been 35 years since my father was here to enjoy them. Although I was an adult when he left us and made his transition, I will always feel like I was robbed. When thinking of him, I realize that it’s the little things, so often forgotten, that continue to put a smile on my face.

My father had two careers where he wore a uniform daily: the US Navy and that of a correctional officer at a local prison. He never held a position in law enforcement proper and I shudder to think what might have happened if he had. He had a propensity for giving nicknames to those around him and I am afraid to think of how an All-Points Bulletin might have read if he were given the opportunity to pen one. Criminals would have donned new and distinctive aliases.

His ability to produce unique monikers came to him honestly. His father, Newton Levigger, answered to the name Pat. If there was a story behind the origin of his nickname, my grandfather took it to the grave with him. His sons, my father and his brothers, followed suit by giving each other animal names. My father was named Rooster as his hair was said to resemble the comb sported by the fowl. No photographs exist from his youth so I rely on my imagination to picture his curly hair standing at attention. I am relieved that neither the name nor the hair style remained. My one uncle was not as fortunate and he carried his name throughout his life. I never thought it odd that I had an Uncle Monk. I would have thought it strange if he had kept the full name of Monkey but apparently his nickname was given a nickname.

It is not unusual for a couple to have pet names for one another. I can still hear my father’s lingering southern accent refer to my mother as Sug, short for sugar, of course. Within our home my mother was not the only one to answer to something other than her given name. I bore the name Miss Priss while my youngest brother was referred to as Hambone. No one was safe from my father’s creativity as my brother’s friend, Jeb, would be greeted upon arrival with a boisterous “Jethro”.

You may wonder at this point if my father, whose flair with nicknames was so prolific, had one himself. Indeed he did. As a young man enlisting in the Navy he became Blackie, a name he would carry with him his entire life. Other than his family, I don’t remember anyone calling him anything other than Blackie. His given name, Henon, was unusual and often mispronounced. My mother, in humor, would call him He – non occasionally, but the usual was Blackie.

Although given this fine example from my father, the names bestowed upon my son were seriously lacking in many ways. Once, while on vacation, we saw a bounty of Milkweed plants. His father and I kiddingly began calling him Milkweed. It was a name that made him, as a teenager, cringe upon hearing it.  It has become more of a joke and now brings a smile as opposed to a grimace. There is nothing I can create that rivals the name my father often called my son. It was never meant to offend and was spoken as an endearment. Since my father has been dead for over three decades no one since has uttered the nickname conferred upon my son and it might be for his benefit. I doubt seriously he would want the name Shit Bird to follow him through eternity.

When Dad Speaks

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My father has been gone for more than half my life. Every so often my mind wonders what it would have been like to have had him remain longer in our lives. My thoughts don’t allow me to have him age although in reality he would have hit the 100 year old mark by now. In my imagination he would still be able to perform those handy man tasks that were common place. More importantly, I could ask him questions about our family or his youth, things I wasn’t prepared to ask earlier in my life. Once again, I could hear the soft southern accent that he never lost.

Years ago, when traveling to New Orleans, my father came to me in a dream. I recall he was wearing his dress blue Naval uniform and we were at the mobile home where we had spent a summer. We were there only temporarily as he was recruiting in a town far removed from where we called home. At some point in my dream, I became aware that death had robbed me of his presence and I clung to him. With tears in my eyes, I begged him not to go. I soon woke up and realized I was sitting upright in bed with my arms outstretched, tears still flowing. I could feel his arms around me. Although I was more than grateful for the visit, I realized he didn’t speak. Comforted by his presence, I wanted more. I wanted to hear his voice.

I hadn’t given it much thought growing up, but I never heard my parents argue. My mother commented, after his death, he never raised his voice to her the entire time they were married. I am not so naïve to think that they didn’t argue but it wasn’t something that we heard. In reality there could be a deafening silence until things were settled. My mother was the main disciplinarian and you knew when she was angry with us. My father would remain even keeled when he was making a point, advising me when I had done something wrong. He would tell me what he thought and then finish his comment by saying, “you know”. His simple comment would have a devasting affect on me. I felt so very small. I did know, I knew not to repeat the transgression.

Very often, as I share my thoughts in these missives, I don’t hesitate to reveal what lesson I might have learned along the way. With the advent of technology, we now have the capability to record the unusual and exciting to the mundane. I wish I had the opportunity to record some of the ordinary things that my father would say to me. Would I have had the foresight to record him when he would ask me to put my pinky in his glass of ice tea, just to sweeten it a bit? Would I have known that I would miss his rendition of the Shake and Bake commercial when the little girl would say, with a very pronounced southern accent, “And I helped!” I continue to feel the love and the longing for my father and I wish I could have preserved his voice. I would love to hear Dad speak one more time. You know?