June 19, 2011 Father's Day

Over Memorial Day I was in Tulsa, and my sister and I drove by the cemetery where Mother and Daddy are buried.  The graves had been decorated by my brother and cousins, and they looked lovely.  Across from where Mother and Daddy were lying, was the Britton family plot, and I stood there, struck by how many patriots were lying there.  My Uncles  served in World War II as did my Dad. Members of our family have, historically, held political beliefs that  have, and will , fall over the political spectrum.  They run from just a little left  of straight up communism to a little right of Rush Limbaugh.  However, at any time that our country has been in jeopardy, you can be sure that Bakers and Brittons were in line to defend her. 

 When Daddy  passed away, someway, somehow, I ended up with the letters he had written to Mother while he was  aboard a PT boat off the waters of New Guinea.  When I first got them, I read them all.  It's been said that military service will 'make a man out of a boy,' and some, no doubt, mature when placed in the structure that IS the military.    Not my Dad. For one thing, he was in his thirties when he was called up. He had lived through the Depression, worked from a young boy to help his Dad feed the family. Without a doubt, he WAS a man by the time World War II rolled around. But,  he knew he had to go, and he went.  He knew what had to be done, and he did it to the best of his ability (and his abilities were substantial).  He hated every damned minute of it.  He hated being away from his wife and infant son.  He hated the food.  He hated seeing people hurt and dying.  However, I think,  most of all, he just plain old hated being told what to do.  He didn't ever like being told what to do. By anyone.  Even my Mother, a strong woman as we all know, didn't tell him what to do without giving a lot of thought about how to approach the subject.  The way he went to the Navy was the way my Dad lived his life. He stood up, looked it in the eye and did his duty.  Make no mistake, he complained every step of the way.  Long and loud.  But, he did it. 

He was not my friend (at least not until I was grown).  He was my Dad.  I told the story while I was home, but I'll tell it again. When I was a teenager and would get dressed up to go out on a date, my Dad, if he was home, would say, 'Stand in front of the door, kiddo, and let me see how pretty you look.'  And, I would stand in front of the door , with the evening sun shining through the screened in porch. I was a full-grown woman before I realized that he was making me stand in front of that darned door so he could see if I had put a slip on under my dress so that  underwear didn't show!  I suppose he saw it as his parental  job to make sure I dressed like a lady and didn't open myself up to potential danger by going out looking like a slut.  

I know, now, from the viewpoint of an adult that I was a source of concern for him.  He worried that I didn't have any common sense, so he always made sure I had oil in my engine, gas in my  tank and air in my tires. Although I never said so, he knew that I wanted to see the world outside of Turley, and he worried about that.  He worried that I'd run off with some clown (and I certainly did that).   He was not a 'Father Knows Best' kind of father, but he showed up, made it quite clear what he expected of us and  made sure we had what we needed

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Dennis, Uncle Jean, Uncle Leland, Uncle Dudley, Uncle Raymond and Uncle Dick. Each and everyone you took your responsibilities to the kids in your lives seriously.  You were great examples and good men.  I miss you all.