Merril, the Gentle Man

I've often proclaimed my love and adoration for my dad. Despite his sullen moods and harshness of temper, he was an exceptionally charming and handsome man. I enjoyed being with him because we shared the same interests, and what interest I didn't share naturally, I purposely cultivated. I wanted to be like him, and in adulthood, I realized how like him I was. Alas, I was like him in manner, but my brother Marvin had his handsome looks. I look like my mother, but Marvin was kind and gentle as she was. And yet, the older I get the more like her I am becoming, not in gentleness, but allowing my Lord to shape and mold me into a kinder and more loving being.

Dad could be gentle. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap and many times on Sunday mornings I would snuggle with him in his feather bed. Those times were sweet and tender moments as he read the Sunday funnies from the newspaper, sometimes reading aloud, other times just allowing me close.  Each day he came home from work he always lay on the sofa, his feet propped on one arm and his head on the other because he was so tall. He would read the newspaper, and when finished he read a western of some sort. He seldom watched television though in the same room. But as he read, he would either sing softly in his beautiful bass voice, sometimes hum, and often he would whistle a tune through his teeth. I loved to listen to him. He sang hymns, which always surprised me. And sometimes he would sing along with whatever song my mom was singing. My mom sang continually, from the time she awoke until she finally got to bed. Then when he was sure he was done for the day, he would stop me as I would pass and say softly, "Tootsie, would you please take my shoes off for me?" Are you kidding? Would I fly to the moon for him? Would I jump over mountains for him? So I carefully untied his wingtip shoes and removed them as he would sigh and then say, "Thanks, Tootsie. That feels so much better." My daddy's feet never smelled bad, but I honestly can still recall the odor of them as they came out of his shoes.

When dad did little jobs around the house, or if he was dabbling with his fishing tackle and was in a good mood, he would whistle. He never whistled with his lips, but always softly through his teeth. He often chewed gum, and he would always offer me a piece. I tried and tried, but I never developed a liking for it. As soon as the flavor was gone I had to spit it out. And one thing that you could always count on was my dad had a toothpick somewhere in his pocket or his mouth. If he came up to kiss mom or me he would make the toothpick quickly disappear into his mouth, then it would appear as he walked away. I can see him bent over the car parts book at the work counter, he's humming or whistling with a toothpick protruding and his glasses at the end of his nose. He would look up to see me watching him, and he would grin at me.  Oh, I loved that man!

Dad was about age fifty when he had his first heart attack. After that, he would keep a bottle of peach or apricot brandy in the freezer and under the front seat of the car. His doctor told him to take a swallow if he felt his heart pounding too hard. If mom wasn't looking, he would hand me the bottle from the freezer and I would take a drink. He had two more heart attacks that I am aware of. Another change was that he began to sleep in a separate bed from mom. He said that he couldn't have sex anymore, and to sleep with her was just impossible. So he got a feather mattress, which would have hurt mom's back, and they slept side by side in different beds. This would never amaze anyone who knew my dad very well. He was a man of many passions, and my mom was one of them.

Before we left Auburn to live in Falls City mom and dad would often sit on the front porch of our house after I had gone to bed, and they would sing and dad would play the harmonica for her. They would talk for hours, or it seemed like hours, for I fell asleep and never knew when they came in. My mom told me a story often of when she was hospitalized in Humboldt sometime before I was born. Dad would come to visit her, and they would talk and laugh the whole time he would be there. One day one of the nurses came into the room and asked my mother how long she and dad had been married. She could hardly believe their answer. "We just can't believe you two have been married so long," she said to them. "You two talk and laugh with one another as if you are newlyweds," I remember those days, but they stopped when we moved in with my dad's mother. I've always believed that he felt torn between the two women. My cousin, Evelyn, had moved in with us and so there were three women. Maybe that's why he would take me along with him because I was safe.

As I went through childhood I loved my mother, but I adored my dad. Mom was the disciplinarian, and I was with her more. She worked hard at home and didn't appreciate when I would dawdle at getting my work done, procrastinate at doing the dishes. She and I did a lot of yelling back and forth, and I often talked back to her. I often got spanked, too. But, when I got older my feelings changed toward my dad, and after I got married my mom became my best friend. She and I shared so many long hours of talking about things in ways we couldn't when I was a child. My dad died soon after I married, so mom came and stayed at our home often. We loved having her there. It's interesting to me how my affections transferred over the years. I can't say that I ever really missed my father after he died. But still, forty years after her death, I miss my mom a lot, often sobbing tears at the thought of her. There's a line from a movie, You've Got Mail, where the female character is trimming a Christmas tree, and she says, "And missing my mom so much I can hardly breathe." Yes. I know that kind of miss.