Father's Day

It's only in the last few months that I've thought much about "honoring my dead people."  Yes, I've always thought of them fondly, or sadly, or with guilt or love; but I hadn't really thought of honoring them in some tangible way until my life coach suggested it to me a while back.  Today I was inspired by this post to write this tribute to my father, who died when I was eight. 

Richard Markle was born in 1906 in Terre Haute, Indiana, a town his 4-greats grandfather had founded in 1816 from land awarded for military service in the war of 1812.  By 1816 Abraham Markle (I don't know when we changed from "Merkle" to "Markle") had moved to "Indian Territory," built himself a grain mill, and platted out the town of Terre Haute.  My father attended Rose Polytechnic Institute, a private men's engineering school, and remained a faithful alumnus until his death.  I remember attending Rose's homecoming festivities as a child, seeing all the floats and watching the college men pull "Rosie," a papier-mache elephant on wheels, around the track of the athletic field. He was educated to be an architect, but being a young married man with three boys to raise during the depression (I came along later), he opted for the security of working as a draftsman in a chemical plant.  As an adult I found architectural drawings he had done, though -- I think his dream was always to be an architect.  Here is a baby picture of my daddy:

My mother met my father when he was visiting his sister in Flint, Michigan.  She said that she knew immediately that she wanted to marry him -- after years of dating boys from the auto plants, he was the first eligible man she met "with clean fingernails!"  After a whirlwind courtship of about two months, mostly by mail, they were married in 1935, and immediately started a family, having three boys in four years.  I came along 12 years after my youngest brother, and about six years after my mother lost another baby boy two days after birth.

Here are pictures of Daddy as a young man (probably as he looked when my mother met him), and years later with -- guess who?

(sorry for poor focus -- it's not your eyes, just an old snapshot)

I was the light of my father's life, and I loved him fiercely.  My brothers recall that Daddy treated them harshly, even abusively -- but he never laid a hand on me except in love, even though he had a hot temper and could yell and swear with the best of them.  I have inherited some of my favorite strings of swear words from my daddy (yes, a priest occasionally swears, though I try to habitually keep my language pretty clean).  We fixed things together, and I accompanied him on many errands to the bank and hardware store (I still love hardware stores!), as well as to his basement workshop.  He was a whistler and a singer, as I am.  I particularly remember him singing "Beautiful Dreamer" and "Yellow Rose of Texas."  His favorite singer was Rosemary Clooney -- "Rosie," he called her.  Empty churches have great acoustics for whistling, and I can sound like a master-whistler in an empty church!

Daddy was a Mason, and attended meetings several nights a week.  My mother called herself a "Masonic widow" because he was gone so much.  He was the chaplain for his lodge, and eventually my mother joined the Eastern Star in self-defense.  We attended lots of "covered dish suppers" in the basement of the Masonic Hall, and I still love a good potluck.  We all attended St. Stephen's Episcopal Church together, where we got donuts and orange juice before the service, and Daddy fed me peppermint Chicklets when I got restless.

But what I remember most about family life with Daddy are all the things we did outdoors: gathering nature's fruits: morel mushrooms in springtime, blackberries from the margins of cemeteries in summer, persimmons, pawpaws, and black walnuts in the fall; camping; taking drives; flying kites.  Daddy and mother both loved nature, and built good memories for their children through activities in the great outdoors.  I can still identify lots of trees and wildflowers because I was taught by my parents.

We camped every summer in the state parks in Michigan around Lakes Michigan and Huron.  I remember my amazement to see water that stretched to the horizon, from which you could not see the other side!  Here's a photo of a family camping trip.  From left to right are:  my handsome daddy, grandma (my mother's mother), my mom, little me, and my youngest, closest brother, Jim (see how I held his hand -- more about him another time).  I don't know if we're leaving or arriving at the campground -- probably leaving, because as soon as we arrived, we were unpacking that cartop carrier (or the attached 2-wheel trailer) and getting the camp site set up.  How I loved to camp!  I still do, but no longer sleeping on the ground.

When I was eight, we moved from Terre Haute to West Terre Haute, where the family home, built mostly by my grandfather, was located.  Daddy was renovating the house, and we were temporarily living in a 30-foot-long mobile home in the front yard. They were called trailers or house trailers then.  Shortly after our move, he was stricken very ill with what they called "kidney disease" back then, but which I suspect was renal cell carcinoma, the same disease that killed my brother Jim (far right, above) at age 59.  Daddy, my best ally and friend, was dead within 4 months.

I still miss him.  Maybe 12 years ago I had a dream about him, and when he hugged me in the dream (which I'm convinced was half dream, half true visitation), I thought, "I must remember this -- this is what it feels like to be whole."  I do believe that growing up without a daddy probably contributed to my being something less than "whole" -- whatever that is -- though I think I'm finally getting there.  His death is one of the things I expect Jesus to explain to me someday.  Yep, I imagine a big confrontation when I die, at which I will stand, hands on hips, and demand explanations for a few things, the loss of my beloved daddy being one.

So today, Daddy, I honor you.  Richard Markle, I honor the man you were, and the memory of you, and all you gave me (the "tools" I dreamed about all those years ago).  I thank you for my artistic, poetic, and spiritual longings and aspirations.  I thank you for all that you provided for me.  I thank you for your love.  Happy Father's Day.

Comments

[Fran aka Redondowriter]

Ann, what a beautiful tribute to your father, even if it is a week early. It inspires me to do the same in the next few days. Hope you are well and enjoying your summer. I can just see you whistling in the empty church.

[Mrs.Staggs]

I've truly enjoyed reading your beautifully written and thoughtful story about your father. I imagine he'd be pleased to read what you've written as well. I think it's rare for a child to truly see beyond what a parent brings into their life to the person that they are inside. That essential part of them that never changes. I think you've expressed that sense of your dad really well.
Take care Ann.

P.S. I'm an eagle too!

[Joy]

Hi Ann,

This is the first time I'm visiting your site...it's great. what a wonderful post about your father. I really enjoyed it. I'll be back soon.

[sharon]

I am enjoying reading your blog (going backwards to this one now) and especially appreciate your sharing of these old family pictures. The story you have shared this date about your family is thick with attachment and the joy you found in your parents and their closest family friends.

I understand, as you know, how profound the loss of a father can be. When a father has been there so much for eight years and then you lose him, you don't "recover".

You continue to mourn in so many ways. Yet his essence is deeply established in your character and heart and remains a support and constancy in your life from then on.

Without realizing it, you fully become this essence and express it thoughout your life, thus honoring him as you have in this blog.

Every year you have your birthday and then Father's Day. What a whallop....

Thanks for sharing.

BTW, there is a family in Buffalo that was our family's "best friends" for many years (they moved from Ohio/Kentucky) and operated a horse farm up in Buffalo, but gave it up about four years ago. The parents divorced when their daughter, who has been like a daughter to me in so many ways, was in college. The dad has happily remarried. Mom kept the horse farm going for a number of years before finally giving it up.

Will chat more when your email is back........

Sharon