I’d wanted to say something at the retirement party, but had been too self-conscious when I made up the program—too shy, and then on the evening, Joy had an outburst right at my chance, and I wasn’t prepared. . . but I can’t let it go unsaid, so I’ll say it here.

When I think about daddy, I think about painting floors. That’s a good metaphor for life with daddy. Daddy would get down on the floor with you. What I remember about Chicago was learning to jump rope in the backyard with mommy and daddy. I remember daddy jumping up and dancing with me to Sesame Street, planting a love of dancing that lives to this day.

Daddy has always been a big burst of sunlight. He’d light up whatever room he was in. I remember how happy he was when I figured out how to tie—first my robe string—right in bed with mommy and daddy. He’d said, “Good! Now can you tie a shoe?” And I confidently tied my shoe, too.

He’d give me the cocoa butter to rub on my scar, and when I’d watch him brush and floss, and pick his teeth, I knew that was something I’d do as soon as I was big enough!
Daddy liked making mouth noises with you, and babbling—just a constant stream of saying whatever fired off in your brain.

Learning to ride my bike, Daddy ran to keep up with both Zeke and me down our little hill. I was ready to ride—he just showed me the brakes—Zeke needed more help—somehow Daddy was enough for us both.

He used to take us to Sears hardware department and let us run through all the doors for sale, sit on the tractor lawn mowers. . . and racing us through the parking lot to the car. . .

Daddy set up an atmosphere of fun that said, even though mommy hated games of all kinds, we always got new board games every Christmas, and even mommy would play them. We would play them with daddy throughout the year, though.

Daddy taught waiting—if we wanted something, he’d say, “put it on your list,” and we could expect that he’d at least consider getting it for us a the appointed time.

Daddy and I would struggle over story problems together, omitting the same crucial bit of information every time, leading me to believe that math was incomprehensible if Daddy couldn’t figure it out. He helped me in English to the point of staying up all night with me to type my research paper with me, and even giving me the theme for my compare and contrast paper—reviewers are kinder to the plays written by Black women than to those written by Black men.

I knew I’d arrived when Daddy stopped correcting my written work. I still have quite a ways to go before I can explicate a poem like Daddy does. I do think I’ve picked up his fascination with words as far as spelling and alphabetization is concerned. It was all in the playing with Daddy. We’d play word games, like that cube with the letters and the hourglass, for hours. There was never a dull moment.

Then there was the work, too. That summer I went to Vienna, 1982, I came home to discover that Daddy had pulled up all the carpet in the house except the living room. When we’d moved in in ’75, there was carpet in the powder room, kitchen, living room. dining room, stairs, hall upstairs, and all the bedrooms.

My room in Nashville had been bright orange, and we’d brought the orange lamp with us, so daddy had already painted my once hot pink walls light orange. The problem with that was he’d kept the hot pink wall-to-wall shag carpet on the floor. So I was thrilled, to say the least, to see it gone that summer of ’82!

Under all that ugly shag carpet, all over the house, were hardwood floors, which I got to help sand, stain, and shellac. I took special pride in helping daddy make the floor in the dining room. It turned out there was a section of just sub-floor in the dining room, that must have been part of a walk-in pantry off the kitchen, eliminated during some renovation of the house.

Daddy got a hardwood kit, and we fit it together like a puzzle, to line up with the existing floor, then gave it several coats of stain to match the deep brown of the existing floor.
There was plenty days’ work in this project, plenty of time to talk. But I don’t remember what we talked about. With Daddy, it wasn’t about the conversations; it was about the experience.

We did another floor together years later, at one of the ‘roach harbors.’ That was Mommy’s name for those cheap rental properties Daddy bought in the 80s. They never were the goldmine he’d hoped for, since none of the tenants had any money. The one on N. Park was probably the biggest one, the nicest one, in my opinion, and Daddy had me there one night painting the floor with thick, brown, latex paint.

I was having fun, though I protested because there was a Michael Jackson special on TV that night, and we were going to miss it. Daddy made me finish the job, though, and we got home in time to see most of that show. I don’t remember that show, but I do remember that brown paint, and how much fun it was to paint the floor with Daddy.

I also remember driving down to Arkansas with Daddy and Uncle James. My driver’s license was pretty new, but I got to put in a good share of the driving. I don’t remember why it was just me, and not Zeke on that trip, too, but I reveled in the time alone with Daddy.

He decided to go through Kentucky instead of Illinois on the way down, to give us a scenic route. It added about 4 hours to the trip, too, and we were exhausted when we got down home, but he was right—it was a more scenic route.

We could actually see blue grass. And mountains, I think. And Uncle James talked more than I’ve ever heard him talk. Daddy knows highways. He’ll talk route 66, 94, 80/90 with you in a heartbeat. I’ve been on enough road trips now for that to be important. I didn’t understand all that talk when I was a teenager, but I think it’s funny now, and useful.

Zeke and I didn’t just join soccer, Zeke, Daddy and I joined soccer. Daddy jumped into that head first, like he did everything else. He coached us both at various times, and became a referee. He played soccer long after we’d both retired from it. It never ceased to amaze me how Daddy knew so much about sports. How did a boy from rural Vincent Arkansas know anything about soccer? And yet, he knew all the rules immediately, and even technique for handling the ball, etc.

He knew all about baseball, basketball, and football, too. He was a tennis expert. . . the only sport Daddy didn’t know was swimming—he’d sink like lead in any water. We were on vacation somewhere when Daddy thought he’d try treading water, since Zeke and I had recently learned to do that. Well, Daddy started sinking, and I went over to save him, and he nearly took me down, too. Fortunately, we were near the side of the pool, and we got over there before we went down for good. Daddy never wanted to go swimming again after that.

Daddy was very supportive, too. I can’t think of one concert, recital, performance, game that I participated in that he wasn’t there. He’d carry my bass for me after all the symphony concerts, even after I was grown up. He was the one taking us to the Civic and putting us in plays, too. I was in at least one play with daddy, and I think Zeke was, too. Then there was the Access Center, where I got to host a couple episodes of Fade to Black, Daddy’s TV show. Daddy is big about putting me out front, which I appreciate. He’ll share the spotlight with you, too.

So, Daddy, I have learned a lot from you, and I continue to learn from you. If I can be half as fun while teaching my children something, I will have been a success. If I can reflect half the Light that you’ve reflected, then I will have accomplished something. I have really enjoyed being your daughter, and I love you. Angie