WhatFinger


Daughters and Fathers

Daughters are Special



I'd often heard this axiom, “Daughters are special;” however, it wasn't until I’d held my own daughter in those first minutes of her life that I fully understood the meaning in the words. But there was more at play at that moment than the simple understanding of words---there was an identity crisis tearing at my inner being.
On the one hand, I was a rough and tough construction worker. In such occupation statements were routinely made with saws, hammers, and even fists at times. And on the other hand, here I was quivering with sweat drenched brow as I held my minutes-old daughter in the palms of my hands. The fear coursing through my mind was that a wrong move or even a heavy thought might damage her in some unexplained way. It didn’t happen, and for this I’ll always be thankful. Today my daughter, Cheryl Marie, is a grown woman with a husband, home, and college-grad daughter of her own. That she has done well is pleasing, but also pleasing are the precious memories I’ll always carry of my daughter. Here are a few of them. My first unforgettable memory of Cheryl's childhood occurred when she reached the point where she could converse. This was still baby talk, to be sure, but I saw it as a milestone and encouraged her to learn and use new words. She did so at a rate I found astounding, but I soon saw another quality. Where this came from was a mystery I never solved. It worked like this.

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When asked a question, Cheryl would not return an immediate answer. At the time I considered the hesitation as simply her means of weighing the meaning in my words, but with a bit of experimenting I learned this was not the case. She knew the meaning. The hesitation was for the purpose of deciding on the answer she believed I wanted to hear. Getting to the truth, then, was often an exercise in patience and skillful interrogation. Once I understood the rules she was playing by, we had fun. This is not to say I often won the game. In those first years of her life I also worried that Cheryl might be lonely without a sibling. My worry was for naught, however, as she made up for this lack of companionship by inventing a friend. I learned this by accident one day as I was passing her bedroom and heard her speaking. This of itself would not have stopped me in my tracks had I not remembered the exact words she was saying. They were my words from the previous evening as we were finishing supper. I peeked into the room. Cheryl was sitting at her play table talking to someone visible only to her. "Well, young lady, you are going to sit at this table until you eat those green peas." I tiptoed away but later, while avoiding any mention of the green peas, I questioned her about her friend. After the usual hesitation, gleaning my mood and question as benign, she told me her friend was Marja. With a few additional questions I learned Marja's mother was Winn Dixie. My final question was, "Where do they live?" With a sweep of her hand touching all points of the compass, she said, "Down there." With Cheryl picking up language as she was, I soon learned the need to watch what I said in her presence. Not an easy task with my construction-worker vocabulary. This need to be cautious with my words was driven home one evening while visiting another couple. It was getting late and we were preparing to leave. While I was saying "Goodbye" to our hosts, Cheryl was standing at my side, looking up, and pulling on my little finger. Thinking she was trying to announce the need for a potty visit, I looked down and asked, "What is it, Gremlin?" With an angelic tone, she said, "Daddy, are we gunna haul #?" "You've had enough now," was an expression I used with Cheryl when I deemed it time to curtail an activity she was involved in. And when it suited her purpose, she used the same words on me. An unforgettable instance was when I had developed an interest in horses. Cheryl was still pre-school age at the time and while she professed a love for horses, I soon learned this love was a distant love. That is, the love faded when she neared a horse. I was of the mindset, however, that if she just tried she'd love them as I did. After all, she had no fear of flying with me in the array of small aircraft I used in my construction business. I had two horses: Poco, a spirited quarter horse; and, Princess, a plug of unknown heritage. Easy choice for a first try. When Cheryl was settled on Princess, and had a two-fisted grip on the mane, I led the way around the house. Not a peep from her until it was obvious I was about to make a second lap. "Daddy." "What is it, Gremlin?" "I think I've had enough now." Two of the aircraft I loved flying were the Mooney Chaparral and the Beechcraft Debonair. And after a couple of trips aloft, Cheryl quickly picked up a pilot’s jargon. When we’d taxi out to the active runway, we’d hold short while I completed the pre-takeoff checklist. With this done I’d ask, “Is the copilot ready for takeoff?” With serious gesticulation she’d reply, “Door closed and latched. Seatbelt buckled. Copilot ready for takeoff.” This usually required me to suck in my cheeks to keep from laughing as I switched to the tower frequency and stated, “Debonair Five-Niner Quebec ready for takeoff.” Once in the air and with a safe cushion of altitude I’d say, “Retract gear.” Without hesitation she’d reach for the gear switch and announce, “Gear coming up.” And then when the gear indication light switched position, she’d add, “Gear up and locked.” I’ve flown many miles over the years, but I’ve never had a more precious copilot. I’ve been an early riser for as long as I can remember, and my habit became Cheryl’s habit when she was still very young. One morning I heard her slip out of bed way before dawn. What was she up to? Then I heard her steps moving closer to my bedroom. I pretended to still be asleep. She crawled onto the bed and then . . . nothing. I cracked one eye open. She was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed and her chin was resting in her palms. Her eyes were glued on me. “What are you doing?” “Watchin’ ya.” “Why?” “Cause I like ya.” I put my hands over my eyes and pretended to be sobbing. “Why are you crying, Daddy?” “Because I love you and you only like me.” She was silent for a moment and then added, “Well, I might love you.” “But how much do you love me?” This time there was no hesitation. She sprang from her seated position and landed right in the middle of my chest. Then with a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek, she said, “I love you best of all.” My dad was a police officer during the first years of my life. He had an affinity for the shooting sports and began training me with firearms when I was big enough to hold one. I don’t recall firing my first shot, Mom said I was about five at the time, but I do remember winning my first rifle match at age twelve. Then, by the time Cheryl was born, I was a member of the Florida State Pistol Team and had competed in the National Matches at Camp Perry, Ohio. There were only a few women who competed in shooting matches at that time, but those who did were fierce competitors. With my training could Cheryl become a champion? I believed she could and set out to make it happen. We visited the local shooting range. After a session of instruction on the safety aspects of the sport, it was time to fire a shot. Cheryl lifted the pistol, aimed at the target, and . . . nothing. She placed the pistol back onto the table. "What's the matter?" "I don't want to do this." "There's nothing to it, Gremlin, all you have to do is have a positive attitude." She looked at the pistol and then back to me. "Daddy, I'm positive I don't want to do this." A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman he turns her back again. Enid Bagnold (1889–1981), British novelist, playwright.


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Bob Burdick -- Bio and Archives

Bob Burdick is the author of The Margaret Ellen, Tread Not on Me, and Stories Along The Way, a short-story collection that won the Royal Palm Book Award.


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