My dad covered his ears during scary movies.
My dad covered his ears during scary movies.
On family movie night, he always tried to steer us away from the scarier titles, even when he’d been the one to throw them into the mix. We’d hit Blockbuster (or, in later years, scroll through our streaming platforms) and narrow it down to a few options. We usually had a choice of action, comedy, and something on the spookier side. Occasionally, there was a horror title he was excited to show us because he’d seen it previously — a classic slasher or something like The Sixth Sense — but if it was unfamiliar territory, he would shake his head and pray he had enough votes to watch a Mission: Impossible instead.
When he lost, though, and he often did, he accepted it. He settled into his chair, draped a blanket over himself (his toes also had to be protected), and prepared to cover his ears. Not through every scene, of course, but whenever the tense, scarier moments came up, his hands moved from the arms of his chair to his ears. And he held them there long after we told him it was okay to listen again, that the monster or murderer had passed for the time being. He waited until he deemed it safe.
I found out later he’d been doing this since he was little; he was able to tolerate the on-screen action only if he’d blocked out the sound. I know this isn’t some unique thing — plenty of people cover their ears during horror movies — but it was a quirk that helped color who he was, something that softened him in my eyes. And it’s something I think about a lot now that he’s gone.
My dad sang to get us out of bed in the morning. His tunes of choice included “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood”, “It’s a beautiful mornin’… for my Jade & Jordan”, “Wake up, wake up for Jesus”, and “it’s time to get up, it’s time to get up, it’s time to get up” with appropriate operatic gusto. Dad sang no matter how grumpy or rude we were, bursting into rooms at maximum volume, tickled by his actions. He did this well after I stopped living at home, belting it out during holiday vacations or brief trips home or wherever we happened to be.
My dad rubbed my back when I got my heart broken. I was 13, humiliated and devastated in the way only a 13-year-old can be. I cried and wailed and hiccuped, curled into fetal position in my twin-sized bed, and he just sat with me. He sat with me until I fell asleep, handing me tissues, telling me things about how special I was, how this would be a distant memory someday, how boys (including himself) were idiots.
My dad was a valiant warrior during family spoon spars over the last bite of dessert. He was rarely defeated, but when he was, it was usually because he’d surrendered willingly to whoever needed it most.
My dad wore Halloween masks and costume teeth to pick us up from school, giddy at the idea of making our friends laugh (and embarrassing us into our graves).
My dad taught me how to drive, showing confidence in me even when I had none in myself. He steadied my shaking hands, brushing off the comic shrieks of terror coming from my little sister in the backseat.
My dad danced in front of the TV when we were in the middle of watching something, sometimes throwing in a moon for good measure. He cracked himself up as he twirled and attempted some fancy footwork, delighted by our faux anger. We tried our best not to give him the satisfaction of a laugh, but it was usually impossible. We couldn’t help it.
My dad refused to take me home when I tried to back out of my high school audition, showing me tough love even as I berated him in the car. I told him it was pointless, that I didn’t want to do this, that I wouldn’t be accepted. I called him names. But he stayed strong, waiting until later to point out that I’d forgotten deodorant that day and filled the car with a funk, a funk that earned me the nickname “onion girl” from him later. I was accepted to that school. (I never forgot deodorant again). He was always in the audience, whooping and cheering, whether I was in the ensemble or center stage. It didn’t matter that he was a former jock with no knowledge of theater. My dad acted as enthralled with my big songs as he might have been with a winning goal.
Maybe it seems like I’m doing my best to get every image I have of him down on paper, some desperate attempt to hold onto memories I’m terrified will slip away at any moment. But I think I’m still trying to wrap my head around who he was, and I want everyone else to understand, too.
My dad died a year ago. It’s been a whole year. A year of no “just because” phone calls or obnoxious texts, a year of no bear hugs or fist bumps, a year of no loud, off-key renditions of his favorite songs. A year of the world feeling not quite right, as if a crucial ingredient had been omitted in its recipe. I don’t know if the world will ever seem right again, if I’ll ever stop feeling like I’ve reached the end of a 1,000-piece puzzle and discovered the final corner missing. But I know he’d want me to fashion my own puzzle piece, to fill it up with sunshine and love and laughter, even when letting the light in feels impossible. So I try. I try to open the blinds and soak in the sun and love who I am. And I remember who he was.
His hair got blond in the summer. He watched violent movies when he was in a bad mood. He loved an orange Hostess cupcake. He picked fights about dumb things for attention. He’d keep food on his face just to annoy us. He enjoyed few things more than an afternoon nap. He randomly ordered what I had in my Amazon cart when I was tight on cash. He happily donned SpongeBob slippers my sister and I picked out when he came home from a long hospital stay years ago. He left me voicemails in a Darth Vader voice, telling me we could “rule the galaxy as father and daughter”. He treasured his serene morning coffee almost as much as colorful evening sunsets.
He covered his ears during scary movies.
