THERE'S MY DAD!

My dad is a preacher, a horse lover, a sportsman, a father of adoring daughters, a miner, a taxi driver, and so much more. He is still all these things, though some of them he has not been able to do in a few years, like riding horses and playing baseball. I struggle to remember that the vital youth he was is still inside that older person I see now. That's still the man who rode a bull many miles so he could be home before dark with my mother, his young city bride. (She was afraid to face the dark Virginia mountains alone, and he was determined to be there for her before dark.) He is still the same man that raced with deer and outran pickup trucks on a mare named Trigger. He's the same man that held my toddler arm tenderly in one hand while drawing the other back in a fat fist, threatening the guy that had scooped me up and terrified me. 

As he ages, he occasionally seems like a different man, but he isn’t. It can be tough watching your parents age. You remember when they were stronger, faster, more vibrant in many ways, but I made a realization recently that helped me deal with seeing this change in my parents. Maybe it can help you too. I attended my great nephew Max's basketball game and realized that one of the reasons I so love to see him run fast and play with such passion is because I know that he gets some of that fighting spirit and athletic prowess from his great grandfather, my dad. I was shouting and screaming encouragement when it hit me: There goes part of my daddy, flying down that court. Max has some of my dad's DNA. Those genes are as firmly a part of Max as his hair and teeth. And let’s not forget, the learned behavior that Dad taught his daughters, and the daughters (and Daddy) taught the grandkids and great grandkids. 

By nature and nurture, Max carries my dad, and the rest of us, right down that basketball court. He trips over the genes when he nearly punches a rival player and he leans on the learned behavior when he reins in that family temper and acts like a proper sportsman. Max’s big brother Isaiah rides horseback, fierce and free, and I know it's my pop’s genes that urge him on. There is Max/there is Dad. There is Isaiah/there is Dad. When my sister Sandi is up to her elbows in the flower beds, as a labor of love for our mother: there is our daddy! When my sister Lila bows her head to pray earnestly: hello Pop! When I open my mouth or take pen in hand to share a story or a common sense idea: there's my dad! When my host of nieces and nephews (and great niece and great nephews) push themselves and work like mules, or tell a joke and get that mischievous gleam in their eyes, or use good common sense, or slip into the dark mouth of the mines, or are kind but firm, or raise their children with great love and affection, I see my daddy as surely as I see those nieces and nephews. 

These days, I make an even greater effort to celebrate the activities and accomplishments of each generation, knowing that I have double the reasons to cheer for Max’s mad court skills and Isaiah’s cowboy antics. I am not only supporting my beloved nephews, I’m supporting what I love about their ancestors and mine. I’m holding fast to the part of my dad that is most vibrant and active. He is in all of us to varying degrees, and so is my mother. I think about her influence a bit less often because her life has changed much less. Many of the things my mother enjoyed, and that seemed to define her, she is still able to do. But I rejoice when I see her radiating out of her family. I smile at my mother’s sure presence when Sandi reads, when Lila sings, when I open my mouth to defend an underdog, even when I too may be an underdog. She shines out of all of us as surely as Daddy does. 

Our elders stay with us if they share DNA with us or if they taught us anything, and I take no small amount of comfort in knowing both of those facts. I have children I birthed that, Thank God, are stuck with me! And I have many people that I share no DNA with, and yet I will to be with forever. My grandson, Jackson is not a blood relative, but when he tells a story and his imagination takes control and his eyes get wide, I clearly see me. When he turns the pages of a book gently, I see me. When he tells his mother he’s going to grow up and be a witch, I know he means, “Just like my Mamaw” because I have told him repeatedly that his Mamaw is a good witch. Other people see my influence in him as well. My husband once said, “You’ve shaped that boy forever.” I hope it’s true, and I hope it’s for the better. Lord knows, I’ve tried. I hope Jack has as much fun with our wild imagination as I have had and continue to have. I know that as he carries me down that winding tale, he also carries my mother and my father, my sons, my husband, my sisters, and many more. I can only encourage and brain-yell from the sidelines: Carry on Jackson. Carry on! Hopefully he, and those he nurtures, will carry us all boldly into the future.