Have a Bad Day, Dad!

Anyone who knows my dad, knows that there are four kids and 10 grand kids who are blessed beyond our imagination for having the dad/papa we have.

From the time I was a wee little girl in Downey, California, my great memories with my dad began.  Laying on the sofa in the mornings watching Captain Kangaroo, or Beany and Cecil, or Rocky and Bullwinkle while drinking homemade Hershey's chocolate milk was a regular daily ritual.  My favorite character was Dishonest John.  From the time I was a pre-schooler, my dad and I have been saying, "Have a Bad Day, Nya-ah-ahh," mimicking Dishonest John's voice.  Really.  To this day, we say good-bye that way.  On the phone, and in person.  Even my kids and Hugo say it.  It's our own special little sign-off.  Who would have known that a childhood morning ritual would live these 40+ years?


On Sundays, he would have to go to work in the late morning, so hearing Vin Scully tell us all about Farmer John hot dogs was a good thing, because it meant that the Dodger's were going to start playing within minutes, and then we'd hear Mr. Scully start in on the stats of the players.  My dad would always comment on how he was the best announcer in the Major League--the most informed, and the best at sharing interesting information about the players.  But hearing him start the game, also meant it was about time for my dad to go to work, which to a three or four year-old little girl, was a sad thing.

He was a furniture salesman, so he had days off during the week, but had to work weekends.  I think that though they fluctuated through the years, the days-off schedule we kids remember the most was the Thursday/Friday days off.  The other kids were all born by then, and we lived in Grand Terrace, the town where we ended up growing up.  I loved those days.  It would be project-day for him while we were at school, which meant Neil Diamond played in the garage while he worked.

Neil Diamond.  If any of us hear Neil Diamond in the store while we shop, or on the radio, we tear-up.  It takes us back to the best of the best childhood memories.  The memory of him getting us ready for our annual camping trip to Kernville, where we camped on the Kern River.  Song Sung Blue, and Sweet Caroline would blare as he would set up our tent in the yard to hose it all out, and then air dry before he packed it back up again to take on our vacation.  He'd check all of our lanterns, and get all of our fishing gear out, while I Am, I Said would rock the neighborhood.  He'd put those yellow rubber weighted thingies on the ends of the fishing lines so that we could practice casting in the street.  Of course, once we were in Kernville, Neil Diamond would be our family theme music, with the exception of a year or two when we listened to Abba, or the Grease soundtrack.

Tessa was his first grandchild, and he adopted a tradition from his step-father.  He would keep a cookie in his shirt pocket for her pudgy toddler fingers to reach in and find.  One of my saddest moments was when Tessa and I (and Adam growing within me), said good-bye to our family as we left for our new life in Nebraska.  Moments before we boarded the plane, to say good-bye to his only grandchild, he knelt on his knee and let her reach in.  As she took her cookie, and her face lit up, his showed the anguish and sorrow of having to say farewell.

Our family visited often the 12 years we lived in Nebraska.  But time doesn't wait for us when we leave--it continues to tick along, and as quickly as the children grow, the adults age.  One time my father came alone to visit us.  I remember the shock I felt as he exited the plane, and I saw that his nearly black hair with wisps of white had changed...the wisps were more pronounced.  He looked great, yes, but my dad was getting older.

One Adam's birthday this week, my dad stopped in with Adam's gift.  While he was here, I had him help me take Adam's bike to the 76 Station for air (we need a bike pump).  He went with me for an errand or two, and then stayed and visited with me in the afternoon.  He sat at my kitchen table talking with me about everything from his recent fishing trip with my 10 year-old nephew Elijah and how he effortlessly caught two trout before my dad even relaxed with his own line in the stream, to the brilliance of my 5 year-old nephew Troy (he says often, "He's scary-smart.  No, I mean really...it's scary how smart he is!"),  and then on to childhood memories of his own, where I savor every word.  In fact, I'm a writer.  I couldn't help it.  I took notes.  Memories I've heard him recount, and others I've never heard--all of them precious, and all of them worthy of hearing again.  And being remembered.  Hence, the note-taking.  Then, as I'd dab an eye from a touching memory, he was back on his grand kids, telling me about my nephew Asher's memory-superpowers, and how the little guy, at 1, can remember things you don't even know he notices.

Yep.  Look at him.  He's memorizing something, I'm sure.  Maybe the coolness of his Papa.

Lee and I stopped by my parents' house this afternoon.  It was a short visit, but like all others, it was good.  And when we left?  You got it.  Lee and I bid Papa a Bad Day.  Nya-ah-ahh!