A Thought on Father's Day

 

Sometimes when I think about my father, a simple thought comes to mind—his morning ritual when preparing his two pieces of toast.

After buttering each piece, he’d smother them with Smucker’s Strawberry Jam. Then, he’d slice each piece diagonally. With the knife lying across the top of his plate, he’d then thoroughly enjoy every bite of his two pieces of toast with a hot cup of coffee.

My father was a funeral director. If he had a funeral on any particular morning, he’d do the same routine. The only difference was he’d be sitting there in his dress pants with suspenders, his white dress shirt and tie. I don’t remember him ever spilling strawberry jam on his crisp white shirt. I do remember his hair meticulously in place and the faint scent of Old Spice in the air.

One morning when going into the kitchen, I discovered he’d already been sitting there enjoying his toast and coffee. It's a morning I’ll never forget.

It was the day after Christmas. I woke up on edge. I was being induced in a few hours. My then husband and now good friend and I and our two little ones had moved in temporarily with my parents a few days before Christmas. They lived above the funeral home. While we only lived a few minutes away, the move made sense when considering our 16-month-old was constantly being hospitalized with bronchitis, pneumonia or the croup.

Since the baby was healthy and ready, my obstetrician suggested I be induced the day after Christmas if the 16-month-old was not in the hospital. Having the two children with my mother and sister would make it easier should he take sick during my few days away after being induced.

The sound of cars being started and stopped and shovels on sidewalks and on the front steps of the funeral home had me up just before dawn. Looking out the bathroom window I could see zillions of big, fluffy snowflakes falling down around the streetlights.

We were in the midst of a blizzard.

Because my father had a funeral to conduct later that morning, a plow had already cleared the driveway. I knew it would have to be plowed again before cars could be lined up behind the hearse to begin the slow drive down State Street, across the Lake Street bridge to the old French church.

Quietly, I went down the hallway to the kitchen. I could tell by the empty coffee cup and crumbs on an empty plate with a knife still lying across the top that my father had been sitting at the table drinking his regular one cup of coffee while eating his regular two pieces of toast covered in butter and Smucker’s Strawberry Jam, sliced diagonally.

Seeing the empty coffee cup and crumbs on an empty plate with the knife still lying across the top calmed my nerves. Everything would be okay. I prepared to go to the hospital as my father prepared for a funeral.

After I showered and dressed, I woke my husband. It wasn’t long before we were tiptoeing down the front stairs to the main floor of the funeral home. The aroma of flowers mingling with the scent of Christmas wreaths and the sight of chairs lined up in front of an open casket caused me to stop and count my blessings.

While one family would be saying goodbye to a loved one, we’d be welcoming our newborn child.

Seeing my father outside in his long wool coat, dress hat and leather gloves with snowflakes swirling as he cleared the snow off our windshield, brought tears to my eyes. Tears continued when noticing my father’s smile once he spotted us walking down the shoveled steps.

When we reached the car, my father took me in his arms. I could have stayed in his arms forever. Between the smell of the wool coat dampened by the snow and his Old Spice and the warmth of his embrace and those big, fluffy flakes still falling, I felt like a little girl again, safe and content in my father’s arms until the baby kicked and the plow returned. Just as my father opened the car door for me, another car drove in the driveway. The other family had arrived.

As we headed down the street, I watched my father. Despite the snow, he stood outside in the blizzard welcoming that family, embracing each member while waving goodbye to us as we disappeared around the corner, on our way to A. Barton Hepburn Hospital.

With my husband by my side through labor and delivery and with the skill of the nurses and Dr. Brandy, we joyfully welcomed our third child, a beautiful baby girl, just before 2:15 that afternoon, that day after Christmas, as the snow kept swirling and the wind kept blowing across the St. Lawrence.

She was perfect. Beautiful. The only baby in the nursery. We named her Natalie (meaning 'The Child of Christmas').

Wishing all fathers, a Happy Father’s Day, especially those who enjoy their toast as much as my father did.

(**The attached picture is a favorite of mine, showing me standing beside my father just before we moved out to the country. I am holding a notebook in which I "wrote" my stories-the same kind of notebook I use today.)