That’s my dad. The little one is me. This is shortly after Tommy changed his name to dad. This is shortly after marriage and Vietnam and a host of other living. My parents settled into a little house in West Columbia, I was born, my brother five years later. Dad went to work as an electrician and for forty years has never stopped.
It’s been forty-two years of heavy steel-toed boots. Forty-two years of middle of the night phone calls, emergency repairs, of swing shifts and blue uniforms. Forty-two years of physical demands, scaling staircases, standing for countless hours, intricate work with his hands.
It’s been forty-two years of endless hours – early, early mornings, sometimes late evenings as the work required. My brother and I marked the days of the week by dad’s presence in the morning. It was the weekend or a holiday when we woke up, stumbled into the den and saw dad in his Lazy Boy watching the morning news. Every other day, he packed a small Coleman cooler with lunch, snacks, unread parts of the paper and would go out into the morning dark to put in the very definition of an honest day’s work, the house still faint with the smell of his coffee.
It’s been forty-two years of self-sacrifice. Dad drove an old rust-colored Ford truck that embarrassed the heck out of my snooty middle school self but served our family well. Our entire childhood, that truck rumbled from dad’s work to our schools. Most days dad got off of work early enough to pick us up, that faithful truck waiting in the pick up line with scores of SUVs and sedans. Dad drove the old truck into the ground so that we could have the nicer, newer cars paid for with hours of his work. If he ever pined after another car, we never knew. He was content with that truck, content to let us dream, content to let us have the finer things.
It’s been forty-two years of homework and dinner duty. After standing for hours on end, he stood at the stove and sink, of algebra, spelling test, and state capitals. He never complained. I cannot remember a single complaint.
Dad retires today, after forty-two years. He says his body just can’t sustain the grind and we can see that. His knees trouble him, hands ache, and he’s kept a heating pad close for his back for years. He has spent himself for us. He has given away nearly everything he has, down to his very joints. The day dad signed the retirement paperwork, he texted me, “Been blessed for a long time with a good job to support the family.”
Dad, here’s to rest. Here’s to healthy knees, hands and back. Here’s being compelled to doing absolutely nothing, should you choose. Or if you do choose to take up a hobby or another job, may it be something you love. Here’s to seeing things you’ve never seen and doing things you’ve never done.
Thank you, dad. I will never know anyone who has worked as hard as you have on behalf of their family. You cast a tall shadow and a long legacy. You’ve loved us well.
And we love you.
One thought on “Forty-two Years”
Crying. It’s fine.