There are a number of people who were instrumental in developing my young mind to appreciate and love antiques. A 7th grade history teacher, my great-aunt Alice, my mother, others, but because today is Father's Day, I'd like to talk a bit about my daddy and the influence he had on me to seek and preserve history.
Growing up in the 50's and 60's few people collected antiques. When I think of all the lovely pieces that were traded in for "new" things at Johnson's Furniture Store, it almost makes me weep. Delicate French sofas and chaises, complete Victorian bedroom sets, oak pedestal tables, all considered "second-hand" by the standards of the day, but that was where my parents chose to shop. Imagine the hootin' and hollerin' at our house when my poor Daddy tried to explain the importance of having a French commode in the living room to three kids...all under the age of 11. Shoot...we were just fine with our American porcelain one!
I was fortunate to grow up in a household that cherished and encouraged a love for things that bespoke timelessness. One of Mother and Daddy's favorite things to do was to load us up in our '59 Ford station wagon and go looking for abandoned houses.
(While this might be considered B&E or trespassing now, I promise you up and down, it didn't begin a life of crime for us kids! It wasn't like we were known around town as Joe's Juvies or the House Arrest Gang!)
I vividly remember to this day one house in particular. It was as if the family just got up from the dinner table...and left. Everything in that old two-story was from another time and covered in dust, including toys. I always wondered what would it take...what form of tragedy...could make a family leave everything behind. Seeing their things...imagining their lives...that may have been the catalyst for my over-active imagination. Who knows? What I do know is it fueled a need to seek out old rather than new because of the story each piece held trapped beneath the layers of dust and grime. That, my friends, is a history lesson that can't be taught in a classroom.
After I grew up and married, Daddy continued to bring me treasures he would find here and there. Being a simple country man (fact is, I'm only one generation out of overalls) he didn't know the difference between Rococo or Rocky Road, but man alive...he knew how to pick. He would show up in the driveway, greet me with his familiar "Hidy, Hidy!", then proceed to pull something out of the back of his pickup he had found for me. Maybe he'd come in for a glass of tea or bite to eat, but often as not, he'd be gone as quick as he pulled up....never saying goodbye. He never said goodbye...kiss my foot...nada...not even on the phone. He'd just hang up, leaving me talking to myself and it.drove.me.crazy, but that was Joe. Now you see him, now you don't...an enigma.
My daddy has been gone 24 years this November and writing to capture my memories of him just gave me some insight into his sometimes quirky ways. His last day in this world, he had called Mother to say he wasn't feeling well. (This may not seem like a big deal to many of y'all, but my Daddy was never ill and certainly not one to call for help. Give him a can of Campbell's Clam Chowder and he was good to go.) Warning bells must have been ringing in my Mother's head as she called me to go get him at his lake cabin...quickly. Danny and I drove in the middle of a huge thunder storm, at one point actually behind a tornado, to reach him. I was hearing the bells too and all the while in the back of my mind thinking "Wait for me Daddy. I'm coming...please wait."
Turning the corner of his gravel road, I saw rather than heard the ambulance and the paramedics truck. Staring at the blinking red lights, I felt the air leave my lungs. A dream sequence, almost an out-of-body experience, began as Danny stepped out of our truck, turned to me and said "Don't move".
Watching him climb the steps to Daddy's big front porch. Trying to read his and the paramedic's lips. Feeling my heart pounding, holding my breath and desperately wanting to reach for the door handle.
Seeing my husband's dear face try to hold it together. Waiting as he, head held low, slowly descended the steps. Then me...collapsing on the front seat in tears...knowing my daddy was gone. He didn't wait....not even to say goodbye.
For a long time, I was angry with him. He knew I was coming. Why didn't he wait?
After all these years, the answer comes in the memories of life with Daddy.
I get it.
I finally see with my heart what my eyes, blurred by tears, couldn't.
My sweet Daddy never did like to say goodbye.
Not to the past...or even me.
Daddy, I know you're listening. Forever...Hidy, Hidy.
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