I can still hear the silverware rattling in the drawer.
Whenever I went on a date in high school, my father would wait up until the boy brought me home. Then, as my date and I sat in the living room chatting, my father made his presence known in the kitchen, creating quite a ruckus as he put away the knives and forks.
It was his signal, his way of saying, "I may not be in the room, but I'm aware of your every move."
That was the kind of dad he was, which was very old school. He gave my mom flowers and chocolates on her birthday. He surrendered his seat on the bus for women and opened doors for them.
And whenever we went out to eat, he proclaimed that no restaurant could ever beat what he called “Grace’s kitchen” (yes, Grace was my mom).
When I went off to college, he sent me on my way with plenty of warnings, which I thought were funny and terribly out of date -- although I didn’t dare laugh.
He told me about boys who would be scoundrels (he was right) and about the dangers of drugs (correct on that score, too).
And the first time I drove home to Fort Lauderdale from college in my creaky old Toyota, he waited anxiously by the window until I pulled up in the driveway.
After my mom died, he wrote me letters in longhand on big sheets of bright-yellow legal pads, and he would often enclose a check with the little reminder, “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
When he invited me to take a cruise with him, he sent a detailed list of what types of clothing I should pack, as if his 29-year-old daughter wouldn’t have a clue.
Later, when I begged him to teach me how to change a tire, he did so reluctantly, because he thought it was a man’s job. The one time I attempted to do that onerous task on my own, I decided he was right.
With Father’s Day approaching, there are so many reminders, even after all these years.
There might be the stirring scent of a Cuban cigar, or the mention of a poker game. There might be a father walking up to Communion at Mass with two little girls trailing behind him.
There might be a balding man in baggy swim trunks sitting on the beach and keeping watch over his family.
One thing always brings him quite clearly to mind, and that's the sound of silverware hitting the drawer with a resounding gong. That was his way of protecting me, I realize now.
Maybe today his style of being a father would be seen as terribly old-fashioned, but I don't care.
I would say it’s wonderful to know that someone loves you enough to take care of you.
Lorraine V. Murray's latest books include a biography of Flannery O'Connor, "The Abbess of Andalusia," and two mysteries, "Death in the Choir" and "Death of a Liturgist." Her email is lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com.
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