Daddy's Favorite

We recently passed the twenty year anniversary of the death of my daddy.  He died on a freezing, rainy Christmas in 1992.  I remember it like it was yesterday afternoon.  There are constant reminders of him in my life; smells of sawdust, beautiful bends in the river, an old pair of overalls, a bottle of Old Spice, an old 1966 Chevrolet step-side pickup truck.  Seeing, hearing, smelling these things bring him back to me and I like it.  I take pleasure in those brief moments when he passes through my memories.  Sometimes I still cry, but not as often.   When he first passed away I went to the cemetery every day for the an entire year.  I'd stand in the rain, in the hot sun, it didn't matter.  I couldn't stand him being there alone.  Many times I'd kneel down beside his grave and weep.  My heart hurt.  I'd known the hurt of losing a husband because he didn't want me but I'd never known the deep, aching hurt of losing the man that truly loved me from the time I took my first breath until he took his last. 

Daddy was a tall man, big built and strong with jet black hair in his younger days and silver taking over as he got older.  Men in town called him J.B.  Everyone at our house called him Daddy.  Even Mama called him that.  There was a softer side to him as I grew up.  I was the baby and I liked it that way.  He had already raised two other children, my older brother and sister, so by the time I came along, he was tired.  He was easier and softer and I know I got away with a lot.  I got to enjoy the more mellow time in his life but I also didn't get to enjoy him as long. 

The flower in this picture is of his favorite camellia.  It grew, along with many other varieties, in the circle drive way at their house, the place I called home.  I remember very distinctly a day when he and I walked slowly through the yard.  It was the winter before his stroke and his steps were getting slower.  He was not well and we all knew it. He loved the camellias and we'd stop at each one and he'd tell me about it and comment about how beautiful it was.  But when we reached this one, he pulled down the stem and held it close to his face and really looked at it hard.  He said, "Sugar, how can anyone look at something so beautiful and not believe there is a God?  Why, if you look close enough this flower has veins in it."  Then, he ran his hand down the stem and broke it off and handed it to me.  We carried this beautiful flower back inside and put it in water for mama to see when she came home from buying groceries.

When Daddy died on Christmas day in 1992 and we buried him two days later, I carried some of these beautiful flowers to his grave and laid them at his head.  Then, every day I would break one off and take it to the cemetery until the flowering bush gave me nothing else to carry him.  Then, I just went alone with nothing in my hands to take to him but my tears.

Every year, I return to this beautiful camellia bush and I break two stems of beautiful blooms; one for Daddy and one for me.  I take one by the cemetery and then I take one home and put it in a vase next to my kitchen sink where I'm reminded of him for many days afterwards.   Some men would scoff at walking around the yard looking at flowers but not this man.  He had learned to enjoy the beautiful gifts that God had given us.  It took me years to reinvent myself so that I could also appreciate the beauty of simple things.  And not that I would ever forget, not even for a single day, but God reminds me of him every winter by bringing beautiful blooms to Daddy's favorite camellia bush.