Gale Hammond writes Mushroom City Memoirs for the Times.
Having recently celebrated another Father's Day, my mind is brimming with memories. And with a nod of respect to the compelling bond between fathers and sons, my memories are from another perspective, and they focus instead upon the relationship of a father to his daughter. Those remembrances illuminate what it takes to be a dad.
My own dad didn't care that he'd fathered a daughter, although at the time there was some sort of social stigma if a man didn't produce a son (and hopefully THAT nonsense is finished). Eventually my father had his boy, but the first nine years of his fatherhood were spent with me, his daughter.
My dad treated me much the same as he would have were I a boy. We raked leaves in the fall and burned them in big piles in back of the house, sending up fragrant scents of smoldering ash. In winter we rolled great balls of snow and stacked them on top of one another, plopping an old fishing hat on top, forming funny snowmen. After dinner on snowy nights he led me outside carrying our big yellow bowl and a giant spoon where we scooped up piles of fluffy snow. Bringing the heaping bowl back to the warm kitchen he added sugar and vanilla: Voila! Snow ice cream!
We dug for worms and went fishing, and he rode me on his shoulders during parades so I always had the best seat in the house. My dad tinkered in his old garage that smelled of tires, paint and gasoline. I loved the smell of our garage, and countless Saturday mornings found me laying beside him on the cold cement floor peering up at the mysterious undercarriage of the car. Sometimes I held his "trouble light" while he delved under the hood. The proper way to handle a vise, to hammer a nail and to discern the difference between screwdrivers were lessons I learned at his old workbench in the dusty sunlight streaming through the window in our garage.
When I entered my teens, I think he was a bit unsure of what to make of my growing up. He didn't say much, but when he spoke his sparse words conveyed a lot. After I became engaged my friend Linda asked Daddy what he thought of my betrothed. He said in his soft, slow way, "Well, when it comes to your daughter I guess there's never anybody good enough." He was strong, he was honest and hardworking. He was my safe harbor in a storm.
Observing my spouse convinced me that our girls were his pride and joy. When our second daughter was born my husband came to my room after visiting our baby in the hospital nursery; another daughter was A-OK in his book. "All the babies were crying except ours," he reported happily.
No sons arrived at our house, but it made no difference to my girls' dad. He took them fishing and taught them to ride their bikes, jogging alongside them on the blacktop at the school playground. Their summer tradition of a trip to Great America was a wild day on the "big rides" with Dad while I enjoyed a respite at home. He was a trooper - you couldn't have dragged me onto some of those rides.
He assisted at soccer games and put up a basketball hoop in the driveway teaching them how to drive home shots. In the winter he taught them to ski and to this day accompanies them on snowmobile outings along with their spouses. With his sons-in-laws' blessings, he installs timers on sprinkler systems, puts up shelves and hangs pictures, takes them golfing.
My husband, like my dad, was a good father, and he worked hard providing for us. As our girls grew older they learned to appreciate his strength and integrity and they both emulate him in many ways. They catch me by surprise when they display character traits common to their dad such as being unafraid of hard work and utilizing organizational skills that they sure didn't learn from me!
These days I'm watching a new dad test the waters of fatherhood. When granddaughter Gracie was born last June, my son-in-law was the parent holding her snuggled up tight in her receiving blanket when we arrived at the hospital to meet the new baby girl. You couldn't have wiped the grin off his face if you tried.
This new daddy is a joy to watch and no, he hasn't seen the half of it yet. But he jumped in and hit the ground running changing diapers, feeding bottles, and taking on bedtime chores. He entertains his baby girl with silly rap songs and soothes her with music he plays softly on his guitar. He plops her little orange "Elmo" bonnet on top of his head to make her laugh and sprints around the backyard with "Airplane Gracie," swooping her into happy shrieks and squeals.
He'll continue being a good dad. Someday he'll take her surfing and teach her the guitar. He'll know innately that his daughter is watching him and that she will be quietly filing away for future use the qualities he will teach her through patience and good example. When it's time, she'll leave her place in the nest taking with her the well-brought-up characteristics he'll instill in her. He'll be the man she looks up to, who will provide her safe harbor when life gets hard.
Mothers are important to their daughters, no doubt about that. We're the nurturers and a soft place to land when our little ones fall. But it's from their dads that daughters learn and remember qualities that sustain them through life. Never underestimate the role a father plays in his child's life for it is priceless, and there is a very special, forever place for her father in a daughter's heart.
Gale Hammond Gale Hammond is a writer and freelance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill 24 years. Reach her at GaleHammond@aol.com.
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