Tag: writing about love

“Because,” I explained with faintly childish impatience, “you’re a MAN.”

He laughed and grinned in his boyish way, and asked me what I meant.  "…Because,“ he explained with resonant patience, "that means all kinds of things to different women.”

Of course he’s right, but my arrogant self-assurance in my appraisal says that doesn’t mean THEY are correct.

I grew up with a principled father who loved his family beyond measure, whose love for his parents, for his wife, for his children has meant all kinds of things to him, but meant so much more to me.

When my dad was away on his frequent business trips, I indulged in books, in exploring the creative aspects of my mind, in learning as much as I could, in playing outdoors and swimming at the neighborhood pool, in helping Mom with cooking and cleaning and generally trying to keep out of trouble so, when Dad came back, I could get giant hugs from him, follow him up the stairs to his room and watch him unpack his bags, chat with him about where he’d been and the people he’d met on planes while traveling across the nation.

Dad’s life was an adventure, to me; I thrilled in his tales, imagined vividly the places he’d been, embraced his life so thoroughly.  On Saturday afternoons, I’d sit on the floor in his room, watching, as he polished his shoes every week, until I was old enough to ask if I could help.  I took so much pleasure in working the dark creams into his shoes, carefully polishing and buffing out the handsome leather until they shone.   I loved the big, metal watches he’d wear and would pass to me while sitting in church when, in my boredom and curiosity, I wanted some distraction from the very-adult-oriented speeches.  I’d snap and unsnap the clip around my small wrist, letting it dangle and fall like a bracelet as I tried to balance it on my childish arm to examine the large face, my eyes following the tiny second hand perpetually ticking off time.  And, when I was cold, with the smallest word of complaint from me – and sometimes, with only a shiver as my fair hair lifted in goosebumps on the backs of my arms, he’d slip his giant suit jacket off and wrap it around me, still warm with his body’s heat; and, when I still shivered, he’d curl his arm around me and cuddle me close.

Perhaps we don’t understand the impact of our fathers, of their natural and subtle ways of being with us, when we’re children; and perhaps they, too, don’t quite understand their impact while it’s happening.

For my impressions of men, of the beauty of men were formed in the music Dad listened to, by Simon & Garfunkel and their melodious tunes, by The Eagles, by tales of Dad’s history as a bassist in a band, and of the mother-of-pearl-inlaid guitar that he’d sold in exchange for taking care of us.

The idea of handsome, honest, honorable men was reinforced while watching his favorite movies with my dad:  gorgeous black-and-white and early-color films from the 1940s and ‘50s with tall, gaunt, well-built men who danced lithely with glamorous women and treated ladies with respect and adoration, showering them with classic romance.  The variants melded and intermingled in my analytical mind as I subconsciously came to understand that men were simply… men: strong, independent, honest, conscious, deliberate, courageous, caring, noble, self-respecting male humans with individually-chosen character.

My dad is still of the men who always open doors for women, who scolded my dates if they dared show up in jeans while I was in a dress or skirt, who loved me, no matter what.

He admired my mind, respected my beauty, treated me with a kind and gentle and serious hand, surprised me with flowers every Valentine’s Day and brought home little gifts, when he could, from his adventurous trips.

So, whether I knew it or not, whether I could help it or not, my desires for love come well-attached to the man who raised me, who treated me well, who helped move me to Midtown Atlanta (and back again), who helped move me to Cincinnati (and back again), who came to visit me time and again when I moved away to Canada and left my family and friends behind.

Yet, I have never fancied myself as looking for my father in my loves.

Still, it was with my dad that I enjoyed meals most frequently, going out for work-week lunches and dinners at his favorite diners and delis and, occasionally, at out-of-the-way restaurants.  And it was my dad who introduced me to the restaurant world I’ve come to love so much, making a go at running a small diner in Florida when I was only three, and my older sister and I would “take orders” for our family.  It was because of him that I decided, at a precocious age, that I wanted to be a waitress – which I later came to be and love.

It was my father who first expanded my palate, introducing me to freshly-squeezed orange juice on a trip from Orlando to our suburban home in Duluth, Georgia, when he halted his cherry-red Audi Quattro at a roadside stand selling freshly-picked citrus, and I tasted the sweetest juice that had ever touched my tongue.  And he taught me to drive, and to love driving:  on that trip and on so many roads, in that beautiful Audi, letting me shift through the gears as he worked the pedals; sharing with me his love of sports cars through so many conversations and tales and photos of hot rod shows in his youth.

And my father who taught me, first, to be honest and true and sensitive.  He may not have said everything he felt, but when my dad spoke, I knew it was honest and true; and though he may not have been completely open with his feelings, my dad was sensitive in his dealings with all of the children, with my mother and with his colleagues and employers.  He was gentle and aware of our feelings, always; and he always responded to us with as much warmth and affection and kindness as he could muster – while still being rational and honest and true to what he knew.

I was never “Daddy’s Girl” – there were too many daughters for him to ever choose or isolate one; but I was Daddy’s girl, and when I was with him, I knew I was loved.  How he managed to love each and every one of his eight children so profoundly that we each, to this day, feel an individual relationship with him is quite astonishing… and his love taught me to love just as infinitely, just as individualistically.

So, in years hence, I could not help but be the girl he raised me to be:

Honest.

True.

Sensitive.

Loving.

Pure of heart.

Strong of mind.

Rational.

Reasonable.

Gentle, but firm.

Kind, and generous to a fault.

Adventurous.

In love with nature and the world.

I took everything I learned and loved from my father – in fact, from both of my parents and from both of my grandparents and from everyone who loved me – I took all the goodness I saw, cultivated in myself what I wanted so I might be as purely as I ever considered a woman might be, and looked for the purest culmination of these that I could find in a counterpart…

And that was, to me, a man.

Why do I love you, my dear one?

Because, unbeknownst to either of us, you have somehow fulfilled my dreams of the perfect man:  a heightened amalgamation of the principles my father taught me, added to my girlish ideals of exploration, adventure, truth, honesty, romance and love.

I love you because I am my father’s daughter, my mother’s fascinated little girl; because my grandfather loved the sea and my grandmother was so infinitely giving and understanding; because my parents left me to myself, to determine my destiny, and my siblings paradoxically let me alone and challenged me.

I love you because, with every man I ever loved before you, I was honed and tempered by all that they loved and all they could not tolerate in me, becoming stronger with every part that I knew myself to be and softer in the parts I did not know I could be; because my mother taught me to follow my heart and my dreams, and, through that, I loved and loved infinitely through pain and heartache and confusion, through depression and fear and misery, and I learned to learn to love and accept and cherish every drop of love that was given me – which I am yet learning to love and accept and cherish – even when I do not know why I receive it.

I love you, my darling, because I am me, and you resonate so perfectly with me.

So, thank my parents for all they taught me, for all they are; thank my siblings for loving and hating me; thank my loves and all of those who loved me – whether they love or hate me now; thank my children for showing me new parts of myself, and for teaching me to love more greatly…

For they are all the reasons I love you, and all of the reasons you love me.