Memories of My Dad

Today would have been my dad’s 80^th birthday. This holiday weekend was always his weekend and will forever be linked with my memories of him. Were he still with us today, rest assured all his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids would have gathered to honor him with plenty of food and chocolate cake.

Earlier this week, a friend of mine posted the following poem on her facebook page, and it reminded me so much of my dad. I absorbed the words, and they were like a warm massage for my heart that ached with missing Dad. And the words recalled to mind one of my favorite childhood memories of him.

NOT FORGOTTEN

I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips 
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.


That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.
(SHEILA PACKA in *Cloud Birds* © 2011, Wildwood River Press)

When I was five or six years old, Dad pulled out an old, bluish-green two-wheeler with coaster brakes that had been my brother’s bike. He dusted off the cobwebs, oiled the chain, bolted on training wheels, and taught me to ride it. I rode that bike up and down our driveway and out to his shop time and again that summer and the next. I was terrified, however, to give up my training wheels and would not let him remove them. One day when I rode out to the shop and asked him to check the air in one of my tires, Dad tricked me, saying he was busy right then but he’d call me on the intercom when it was ready. Awhile later, I walked back to the shop with Mom, hopped on my bike, and took off down the drive. I rode all the way down, turned around, and rode all the way back up to where my parents stood laughing in the doorway of one of the service bays. As it turned out, Dad had checked the air in my tires and also removed the training wheels without telling me. He was sure of my ability to ride even though I wasn’t.

I outgrew that old bike pretty quickly, and I really wanted a new one of my very own, not a hand-me-down. When May 1982 rolled around, I was 7 years old and praying for a new bike for my 8^th birthday in June. As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to wait that long. My dad surprised me on his birthday with a shiny new girl’s bike. It was creamy white with navy blue pinstripes, hand brakes, and three speeds. I didn’t know what to say at first, until I realized this bike wasn’t for Dad—it was for me! He gave me a birthday present on his birthday! And that’s just how my dad was.

I loved that bike. I even decorated it with crepe paper streamers and American flags to ride it in the Fourth of July parade that year. But what made it so special was the fact that Dad gave it to me on his birthday.

Happy birthday, Dad. We miss you. Love always, Amy Joy