I suppose that I still see my father through the eyes of a child and yet I somehow conform my memories of him to the journey that has led me to the person that I am. I was but a child when he left this earth and he was a very young man still attempting to find his true purpose in the story of humankind. While I have had plenty of time to sort out who I am and how I hope to impact the tiny speck of the universe in which I have lived, he was still in the process of becoming.
My father was off at work during most of the days in which I enjoyed being his child. He set out for early each morning and came home as my mother was preparing dinner. He would exchange the suit that he wore to his job with khaki pants and a comfortable shirt and then ensconce himself on the couch where he would read the afternoon newspaper. I knew not to interrupt him while he was busy studying the many sections of local and worldwide news but I liked sitting nearby waiting and watching for him to take notice of me with commentaries about what he was learning from the words imprinted on those pulpy pages. Invariably he informed me with his own editorial views about what was happening in the world around me, often adding his own knowledge of history to explain the whys and wherefores of the daily march of time.
Those brief moments with my father would become precious to me after he was gone. I would remember the classical music that he played on our Victrola and the chuckles that seemed to come from way down in his belly when he encountered a story that was funny. He seemed to enjoy explaining things to me and so I made it a point to be present and attentive so that I might earn the pearls of wisdom that gave so freely from his prolific thoughts.
Whenever we went to visit my father’s parents, my grandparents, I was often guided to my Grandma Minnie’s side where I learned folksy skills, but I would also be listening to the conversations occurring in another room between my daddy and his father. I never knew exactly what was animating their discussions, but I could hear the liveliness of their voices and the references to books and articles that they had read. i suppose my own quest for knowledge and love of reading began from my father’s example and a childlike urge to make him proud of me even after he was gone.
My home is filled with books and magazines. I have online subscriptions to so many newspapers and periodicals that I can hardly find the time to stay up to date in reading them. Like my father I have certain times in the day when I pause to give my full attention to learning about the current events and news. I have long daily discussions with my husband and often think of how much he would have enjoyed talking with my father. I envision the two of them enjoying lively discussions in attemps to make sense of the world.
I have an everlasting link with my father through learning. I imagine sharing what I have discovered with him. I realize that the happiest moments for me are found in wandering through bookstores, and partaking in serious studies of history and science while also finding ways to laugh at our human foibles. I know that my life has been quietly guided by the gift of curiosity that he awakened in me. Sometimes I feel his spirit and encouragement pushing me to find answers to the many questions that I have.
As an educator I have realized just how precious my father’s gift of example has been for me. All too often I have encountered young people living in homes devoid of opportunities to enrich their knowledge. Nobody has inspired them to unlock the wonders of the printed word in the kind of ways my father did for me. It is often up to a gifted teacher to show them the glories, excitement and power to be found in reading.
I have encountered students whose home life was in such turmoil that they had little time to enjoy the luxury of reading. They often had to simply find ways to survive the hardships inflicted on them by fate. They were on their own while their parents struggled just to keep food in the house and a roof over their heads. The horror stories that I have heard are legion. I suppose that my love of teaching has evolved from wanting to be for them what my father was for me.
After my father died I became a model student in his honor. My childish mind somehow believed that it was what he would have wanted me to do. Over time his habits became mine and in turn I passed them down to my daughters and my students. Doing so has provided great purpose for my life but I see that there is still much work to be done. Far too many people today are easily mislead because they do not take the time to cull through the many lies and propaganda efforts that depend on ignorance to survive. I suppose that means that I still have work to do, encouraging one person at a time to set aside time to read and to learn. It should be as routine as breathing. My father showed me that we must always feed and exercise our minds. From him I received an inheritance beyond measure.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 