Shopper Blog: Remembering the gifts from my father

OPINION

Remembering the gifts from my father

Leslie Snow, Shopper News

My father loved my mother deeply and beautifully. He loved her kind heart and her soft-spoken nature. He loved the way she nurtured everyone around her, always asking questions, never drawing attention to herself. She was his ideal woman, gentle and good, thoughtful and sweet.

And that’s why my father and I butted heads when I was growing up.

I could never measure up to my mother. I wasn’t gentle enough or kind enough. I wasn’t self-sacrificing or sweet. I was assertive like he was, and he considered that a failing on my part.

For years we didn’t get along. For years, we didn’t have the kind of relationship I wanted. Our similarities made us chafe. We both preferred my mother’s softness to our own boldness.

Sometimes people would remark on our similarities. They’d hear me make a sharp retort or share a strong opinion and they’d say, “You’re just like your father.” I would vehemently deny it. He made me angry as a child and I didn’t want to be like him. I wanted to be more like my mother, but it wasn’t in my nature.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon planting small shrubs and perennials in a plot of hard earth I’m determined to transform into a planting bed. I carried the plants and bags of soil down a long winding path by myself. I knew it would have made more sense to wait for my husband to come home, but I was determined to do the heavy lifting by myself.

I stood on the shovel, using all my weight, until I felt the packed dirt loosen. I used a trowel to dig out rocks. I used my hands to fill each hole with rich dark soil until my back and legs ached and I could barely catch my breath.

And when the work was done, I thought of my father.

He would have liked this adult version of me. He would have smiled at my determination. He would have admired the strength hidden in my small arms. He would have been proud of me for doing the work myself instead of asking someone else to do it for me.

I remembered a younger version of my dad then, laying flagstone and gravel to create a path around our wooded lot. I pictured the way he wiped the sweat from his brow using the hankie he always kept in his pocket. I saw his mischievous smile and the way he raised one bushy eyebrow before he cracked a joke. I could see myself in my father and it filled me with gratitude instead of anger. Gratitude and sadness.

I wish I could have told him how proud I am to be like him. I wish he could have known how thankful I am for the stubborn determination that makes me believe I can do hard things. I adore my mother, but I am like my father.

I never got to say those words to my dad in a way he could understand. By the time I was old enough and mature enough to recognize the gifts he had given me, dementia had taken most of his memory. We had the conversations, but he didn’t understand them. I said all the right words, but he couldn’t retain them. Then he was gone.

As the afternoon sun faded on the day, I looked at my garden and sent my love for my father out into the universe. It made me miss him, but it made me feel closer to him as well.

Leslie Snow may be reached at snow column@aol.com.

This article originally appeared on Knoxville News Sentinel: Shopper News brings you the latest happenings in your community