"A Collection of Moments"

Dear Daddy,
When champion figure skater, Paul Wylie, said that, "Life is a collection of moments," I was reminded of the many "moments" that qualified you to be among the "four fathers." You were the family man who many times sacrificed your own happiness in order to ensure the four freedoms for my future. You were committed to lighting my path with the necessary lessons for a successful life. You were the Lamplighter Father.

As I recalled some of those "moments," I realized that with each lesson of life, you were teaching me about choices. So when you passed away, I began writing down some of those choices and "Father Knew Best," was one of those "moments" when you gave me a choice that I have called my "declaration of independence."

Declaration of Independence

It was an exceptionally hot day that July in 1950 as you and Mom sweated it out at the dry cleaning shop. Determined to see a new movie, which cost twenty-five cents, I realized I had spent my weekly allowance of fifty cents, earned from doing chores.

Without hesitation, I went running into the shop and confidently asked you for a quarter, which in the past you had never refused to give me. The sweat was pouring down your face as you brought the press down on a pair of pants. There was a long pause before you quietly said, "No." I stood there bewildered, finally asking, "Have I done something wrong?" "No," you softly replied, "I don't have it. I guess you'll have to earn it." I hadn't expected this, so I reasoned you wanted the car washed, and I argued that I knew you had a quarter in the change drawer.

Along with another burst of steam, your response to my pleading was, "You can't earn it from me. You'll have to get a job." By this time, my stomach was queasy as I whined, "Where am I going to get a job? No one will hire a ten-year-old." But you just kept pressing those doggone pants, suggesting that I start asking for work, beginning with the stores on our block.

At this point, frustrated and defeated, I dropped my head, slowly sauntered out the door, and headed down a very short two blocks of our town's main street. The first business was a saloon, the next a repair shop, and it continued to worsen as I dejectedly passed each store, winding up at the theater across from our shop.

Then it hit me! Racing through the door, I blurted out my solution. "Daddy, Daddy, I've been to every store and no one would hire me!" I was sure you wouldn't refuse me after my fruitless, diligent efforts. However, with another burst of steam and raised eyebrows you asked, "Did you go North?" "North?" I stammered. "No, but there isn't anything that way except a café and the ice house." By this time I could read your mind and it was saying, "Go North, my child. Go North." Thus, I went North.

When I got to the café, I leaned against the wall and stared at the icehouse. My mind was blank as I watched the ice truck unload the blocks of clear, crystal ice onto the metal platform. I thought about how we kids would wait until Mr. Brown was inside, and then we'd run up to the platform and grab a piece of chipped ice. The idea was refreshing me when a thought flashed through my mind. Racing back to the shop, I breathlessly shouted, "Daddy, Daddy, I got a job!" "You did?" You questioned. "So, what is it?" My heart pounding with excitement, I spurted, "I 'm going to make a sign for the ice house!" You smiled, "Good. What did Mr. Brown say?" That stopped me cold. In a more subdued voice I murmured, "Well-I didn't talk to him. I-I thought maybe you'd ask him for me." Somehow I had a notion this idea fell on deaf ears, and it had when you said, "No, you'll have to ask him yourself."

With the temperature and humidity around 100, a cold chill went up my spine as I ambled out the door, trying to get up the courage to face the iceman. Trembling inside, I weakly squeaked, "Mr. Brown, how would you like for me to paint you a sign for the ice house?" With his feet on the desk, he grumbled, "Sign! What do I need a sign for? Everyone knows this is the ice house!" I sure wanted to go to that movie, but I was having a terrible time finding the right sales pitch. In a final attempt, I said, "Well, what about people who are from out of town? They wouldn't know where to get ice." Clearing his throat, he grunted, "Oh, all right."

My weak legs stumbled down the steps and back to the shop. With some enthusiasm I blurted, "Daddy, I got the job." With sweat rolling down your arms, you smiled. "Good. How much is he going to pay you?" By that time my nerves were shot and I weakly stuttered, "I don't know. I thought maybe you'd go back with me and ask him." I knew that was a stupid statement, for by now I knew what you were going to say.

Again I faced the soles of the iceman's shoes, and somehow made a deal to paint a sign with "ICE" on each side-for twenty-five cents a side. When I returned to the shop, I told you about the big salary. Exhausted from nervous tension, my only problem left was how to make the sign. You then stopped working and bolted two pieces of sheet metal together. As you drew the letters "ICE," I filled them in with black paint. The "ICE" sign hung on the telephone pole in front of the icehouse, and would remain there for the next 17 years, a reminder to me of the day of my "declaration of independence."

Thank you, Daddy, for lighting my path and teaching me how to become a "Choice Maker" on my day of independence. I will write again about other "moments" when you were the Lamplighter Father and I was "Daddy's Little Girl." I love you, Dodie

Please join me as we continue The American Journey, and may God bless you with hope, health and happiness. Dodie

Train up a child in the way that he should go…Proverbs 22:6
dodie@theamericanjourney.com

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