I’ve never had what you would call elegant hands. My palms are broad–so much so that I can’t wear most bangle bracelets–and my fingers are short and squat. They are strong hands, though, and they look exactly like my father’s. When I type or write, I see him in my motions. His hands on a hammer building me a lightbox above my bed when I was a kid so I could read at night and not have to get up to turn off the lights. His hands playing a blues riff on his Hammond B3. His hands holding me up at a baby beauty contest when I was just under two.
There’s no doubt that I am my father’s daughter. In side by side photos of us, you can see my nose is his, my large eyes are his. If you meet me and hear me laugh til I nearly cry, wheezing and choking on my chortles and guffaws, you’ve heard my father. We are both partial to stupid humor, shrimp with our steak, KU basketball, and a quiet lake with a fishing pole and nothing but time and the wide open Kansas sky to fill the day.
This past few weeks, I’ve had the gift of texting with my Dad as KU began its run in the NCAA tournament that eventually landed them a national championship. His texts are hilarious, punctuated with memes and gifs and sad emojis when the team was struggling, but the most important part is that he knows, without a doubt, that I am right there on the other end of the phone waiting to hear from him. That no matter what he has to say, I’m going to listen.
He taught me the value of listening from the very beginning. My Dad has always been a musician, and his ear for a chord or melody is unmatched. I can’t play an instrument, largely because I never had the discipline to practice, but I can sing just about anything you throw at me, and that comes from watching my Dad at the piano–most often a Hammond B3–working out some evasive run or diving headlong into a song he was learning for one of the many bands he played with throughout my childhood. To be a good musician in an ensemble, you have to hear what everyone else is doing and see where you fit in best. You can show off too much, or hang back too long, and then you aren’t really contributing. Or, you can pace yourself–hear everyone and honor their contributions while making your own.
My Dad taught me to do that. We had an infamous argument when I was in high school during which he told me that eventually I would have to learn some tact. I was headstrong and self-righteous and certain I never needed to temper anything I said. If someone didn’t like it, that was their problem, not mine. Of course, had I really been listening that night as we disagreed over the bar separating the kitchen from our living room, I would have heard him warning me that tactless behavior would cause me more problems than digging in. And, again, he was right. His infinite patience with me is also why he taught me how to drive. Mama Tried, as Merle Haggard sang, but she and I are too much alike for that endeavor to have ended in anything but anger and tears and more than a little cursing.
Dad’s patience lasted even when, on our first trip with me behind the wheel, I knocked the mirror off his truck by hitting a road sign after getting too far over on a two lane road. His only response? “Let’s not tell your mother about this.”
Of course we did tell her, and of course all was well.
My Dad turns 73 tomorrow, April 12, and his age baffles me. I have worked construction with him, doing demolition and tear out, insulating walls and hanging suspended ceiling, and though it has been several years since I was on the payroll, he works just as hard now as he ever has. I carry that deep work ethic with me every single day. If my name is on something, it will be done to the best of my ability and no one will question my professionalism or integrity. I learned that from Paul Denny Draper, and if I teach my students anything worth knowing in this life, it is that lesson.
When I got divorced in 2010, there were many days when I felt strange and broken, like I had failed at something so many other people get right. We had family pictures taken the following year at my grandmother’s house, and I was nervous–everyone seemed to have a person or a family except for me. My younger cousins were unmarried, so they fit with their parents; my brother and sister-in-law had a beautiful baby girl and were expecting another one. They were adorable together and with my folks who took to grandparenting like they were made for it. I felt conspicuously alone until my Dad ran up and took this photo with me, reminding me I am never really alone as long as he’s around.
It would be easy for my Dad to retreat into himself and not interact with the world. He was raised sort of an only child; his older sister and half sister were both out of the house before he entered high school, and he went to Vietnam when he was still a kid. I see his face, sometimes, in the faces of the young men I teach and want to go back in time, find my Dad, and hug him tight as he gets off the plane, coming home to a country that didn’t honor and respect him as it should have. I want to tell him one day he’ll marry a smart, funny, exceptional woman who will give him weird, talented children who will love him every day without failing. I want to go back and let him know that someday he will find a safe place to land.
But, he doesn’t shy away. In fact, he is social and silly and kind, and I especially appreciate how he has have made time for and invested in the women in his life since I was a little girl. He has never treated anyone (who didn’t deserve it) with anything less than respect, and the way he used to chat and laugh with my Nanny, his mother-in-law, always made me smile. They got a huge kick out of each other, and she often said how lucky Brandon and I are to have him as our father. Lucky isn’t a strong enough word. Blessed? Born under a bright star? Something powerful in the universe made us his kids, and I am thankful to God for it every single day.
The thing that makes me most proud, though, the part of being my father’s daughter that fills me and gives me joy even on the hardest days, is that I have a deep capacity to love and forgive people that I know comes from him. My Dad doesn’t hold grudges, he doesn’t give up on people, and he doesn’t assume anyone is out to get him. He is a machine of kindness. Everywhere he goes, he finds a friend. Having grown up and lived in the same town all his life, that isn’t surprising, but even when he is in new places, he can strike up a conversation with anyone. And when someone disappoints him or burns a bridge, he knows how to let go without letting it tear him apart. I’m still working on that last one.
It is the way he loves my Mom that has taught me the most. They’ve had hard days and gorgeous ones, like any couple who has been together nearly 50 years, but through it all they have liked each other, laughed with each other, and pushed each other to be better. My Dad looks at my Mom, still, like she is the most spectacular and astonishing bird in the sky and he is just fortunate to have been looking up when she passed. They are a model of love and patience and appreciation that taught me I deserved that in my life. To be with Michael and to build a life with him is an exercise in trying to replicate the love my parents share.
What a gift it is to have the words to share who he is, hands like his to type them, and a heart like his to spend every day loving as many people as best I can.
Happy Birthday, Papa. Love you forever.
Shannon Carriger 