A Daughter's Final Farewell
Posted: Monday, December 01, 2008
by Cynthia Hockaday
An enigma to most all of us, it is only recently that I have come to understand who I believe my father was and the gifts he left to his heirs.
I imagine a handsome, beguiling young man, full of life, full of knowledge and full of dreams, chasing from one star to the next, until the day he was mesmerized by the sunbeam that was my mother's beautiful smile. I see his enchantment at the sight of her, the sound of her voice and the smell of her golden hair. Love overtakes all of his previously held desires. The wedding comes quickly and on the most glorious of eves.
These are the memories I have of Dad:
I remember a terrible snowstorm in which Santa built a swing-set for four eager young children. And the day shortly thereafter when he was worried sick and had to dig my brothers out of a snow-drift. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how they ended up in this predicament, a fact I aspire to learn in the coming days.
I remember the day he came home with a Dalmatian that he adopted from some firemen, though I'm sure I couldn't pronounce that word correctly at the time. But her name said it all, "Specks". She would be a beloved pet until the day she left this world and long afterward.
I remember two athletic young boys who wanted to play basketball. The next thing I knew, there was a basketball court that took up almost all our backyard. I must admit, once I learned to play out there, the sight of it became less disturbing and more appealing. And later, I remember all of us going to watch my big brother play basketball at school.
I remember those same two athletic young boys wanting to play baseball. The next thing I knew, there were trips to the ball field, watching my father coach my brothers in a little league baseball team. My big brother is playing baseball again today.
I remember those same two young athletic boys wanting to play football. The next thing I knew, there were trips to the football field, watching as the crowd yelled and screamed while my brothers were out on the field and one of them had the ball. I would later learn he would be called "Wrong-way Rowland". It's okay though, my little big brother had another fish to fry, with Dad's help, of course.
I remember we are driving down a long drive to a building surrounded by tall oak trees set in the middle of wide expanses of green grass. Surprise! It's a golf course. My brothers would jump out of the car, with long skinny bags and five or six clubs with iron shafts clanging. We would make this drive back and forth many times. My little big brother lives his passion for golf everyday.
I remember the drums and horns of John Philip Sousa blasting us from our young dreams of flying, still dark outside and dad throwing open the bedroom door and singing reveille, "It's time to get up, it's time to get up, it's time to get up in the morn-ing." Nothing stirs me more than John Philip Sousa to this day.
I remember how we would line up for our hair-cuts, the boys with their crew-cuts and an occasional patch that looked just a little more bare than the rest, the girls with their bangs at different lengths and angles. And as if to capture his handy-work in all its glory, he would paint a portrait of each and every one of us. I never cared for the painting as I thought it made me look quite unattractive, but when I pulled it out this last time, I realized all he saw was beauty, as he captured every detail right down to the light in my eyes.
I remember standing in a row with my little sister and three other little girls. We had 5-irons in our hands and my father was showing us the right way to hold and then swing the club. It was a perfectly flat golf course in the southwest Texas desert with tumbleweeds and roadrunners that we would chase until they disappeared over the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the perimeter of the fairways. It was next to a private airport with gas wells that would flare and light up the night. To most, this place would never be on their travel itinerary, but it held a rugged beauty all its own.
We were always on the go, whether moving to a new place or vacationing at old, but the education about all the world had to offer could never be surpassed. There was not enough time in this world to explore his passion for all things beautiful. And if there had been enough time, there is not enough world.
To Jason, he left his love of language and wits to use it skillfully. To Ashlie, he left his independence and fortitude. To Mariam, he left his tender heart and words. To Haithem, he left his athleticism and guardianship. To Amira, he left his desire to consume all knowledge in the world and the ability to share it with others. To Danya, he left a love of all things beautiful and a vision of more to come. To Romy - well, he is the child I imagine my father to have been, with handsome charm that will soon sweep many a young lady off her feet.
And they are his gifts to us.
As a final tribute, I went to the dictionary and looked up a word, as I was so often instructed to do, not because he didn't know the meaning but because he wanted me to know how to learn. The word is life and one of the definitions is animation; liveliness; and spirit.
Thank you, Dad, for putting the life in our lives.
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Top-level comments on this article: (7 total)Hi Cynthia.This is a truly beautiful tribute to your father. It sounds like he was an amazing man.Dianne
Cynthia, I agree with Dianne. This is a beautiful thing you have done to honor your dad. Thank you for sharing him and your memories. Blessings to you!
hi cynthis,this was such a heartwarming and riveting article of beautiful memories of days and family gone by. what a great article to start out with. there were so many similarities to my life growing up. 2 boys into sports, 2 girls, and a dad who had a jekyl/hyde personality, but we all loved him very much. he has always been my hero, and is now with God as well. thank you for sharing this well written article, and i hope you continue writing,welcome to searchwarp,best regards,sue thom
Sue,It is true that my Dad was a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde personality. I now know that he could only bear his heart in writing. I think he just wanted to make sure our lives were better than what he perceived his to be.Knowing our similarities, Sue, I look forward to reading your work and finding the feelings of someone else with a similar background.Cynthia
Very touchy Cynthia! Great writing...God Bless you...
Hey sister, nice job!Rett
Cindy, hopefully you will read this. I too remember all those stories as I lived them with you for 20 years. We compared notes on how many times you had moved vs me and as I recall you came out on top. Jack was who he was and at the end of the day he will be remembered most for having this blue eyed, blond daughter that caught my eye and was asked to dance. We danced for 20 years .. Love, Dee
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