“I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us. We are formed by little scraps of wisdom.” ― Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum
There's a special bond between the two, and if you grew up with a dad like mine it makes for fun and lovely memories. And some terrific stories when you're all grown up. All grown up maybe, but at times miss your dad so badly you feel as small and unprotected as you did when you were 4 and wanted him to chase away the monsters living in your bedroom closet.
Here are a few of my memories of my dad . . .
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. The kitchen was huge and our stove was an old one that sat up on legs. Remember those old stoves? Anyone else have one of those?
A friend of my mother's, Clara Rook, kept bringing me little chicks one Easter. Those pitiful little chicks that people would dye pink and blue and green at Easter time? AWFUL! and, of course, they usually died fairly quickly, bless their hearts. Well, my sweetie pies didn't. They just kept getting bigger and bigger. In an apartment! Daddy knew I loved those chicks. Every time the subject came up about them being too big to live in an apartment, I would start crying. Finally my dad put some chicken wire around the legs of that old stove and put the chickies in there. You just know how much my mother loved this, right? The chicks just kept growing and one morning I woke up hearing my dad yelling some pretty bad words. The chicks had knocked down the chicken wire and they were all hopping on Mom & Dad's bed. For real.
The chicks went to granny's that day. I was told they were going there so they'd have a big yard to "play" in. uh huh. Sunday Dinner. I'll never get over it. We went to my grandmother's for dinner and the minute I walked into the dining room I spied the fried chicken on platters on the table. Mother tells me I just squalled "My Sweetie Pies! Oh Nooooooo - You've cooked my Sweetie Pies!" and cried and cried and cried. Heartbroken. And nobody ate fried chicken that day.
I have a million memories of that apartment. But let me set the record straight - it wasn't a fancy big city type apartment. This was small town living. And we were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we were out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant mingling with the line of people buying tickets to see a movie before we would get upstairs and into our apartment. Since it was a small town and everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are You's?" and get up the stairs to home. And, since neither of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked, we also never knew who might be there waiting for us when we did get home. But it seemed there was always someone. It might have been one of my many aunts or uncle or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends of mine from school. Amazingly enough now as it might sound, it was never cause for concern back then. It was just an accepted thing. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." (There are enough of these stories to keep this little blog of mine going for the next several years.)
There was also a jewelry store owned by Mr. & Mrs. Henry DeVoe in the lobby of the Arcade. Sometimes on Saturdays they would babysit me while Mother did the grocery shopping if Dad had to work. It was the beginning of my love affair with jewelry. Mr. DeVoe was my buddy - he opened my first charge account. Remember the silver bands we called "Friendship Rings?" They were $1.00. Sterling silver bands for $1.00. Can you imagine? Well, I loved those, but would lose them often. He would let me charge one and pay him on installments out of my allowance. About the time I'd have one paid off, I'd lose it and he would let me charge another one.
There was also a beauty shop, and an insurance company and I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with it. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.
I don't think I'd trade my growing up years in Cambridge for a beezillion dollars.
My dad played basketball, and was apparently quite good. While growing up, I would hear stories about his basketball career. Many times in school my teachers and parents of my friends seemed stunned when realizing who I was - that I could be Alan Wilkinson's daughter and not have any more athletic ability than Adam's house cat was just not understood.
I had been gone from Cambridge for many, many years, and my dad had been gone for many years when Donald and I were home for a visit. We had gone out to the High Spot for dinner with our friends Pam and R.T., who I grew up with and graduated from Cambridge High with. Pam said there was someone in the restaurant she wanted me to meet - he had been a friend of my dad's. When she introduced me, he said he had played ball with my dad and besides my dad being quite talented, he had a trait which he admired even more and that was the simple fact that my dad was also a gentleman - off and on the court. "A good, clean playing ballplayer," he said. and I promptly burst into tears.
It's a lovely thing to have someone remember your dad in such a sweet and simple, exceptionally special way.
He was a very good man, my dad.
"My father didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it." Clarence B. Kelland
1. Lewis, 2. Irvin, 3. Roy, 4. Ethel, 5. Alan (my dad), 6. Pop Pop (Irvin), 7. Belle, 8. Grandmother Laura Mae. Picture taken by older brother Ed
Dad taught me to ride a bike - and I vividly remember when he was trying to teach me how to drive a car he made a comment or two about how the bike learning experience had been a whole lot more fun and less traumatic for both of us.
We were all three HUGE Oriole fans and it was a very big deal and very special occasion for us to go to Baltimore for a game. Not as big a deal as going there for a Colt's game, but still a big deal.
And pretty special to get to Ocean City too. (Think he's wondering "What's with the HAT?!)
Pop Pop's 90th Birthday - July 18, 1965
In front - Aunt Belle, Dad
In back - Uncle Lewis, Pop-Pop, Uncle Irv, Uncle Roy, Aunt Ethel, Uncle Ed
Deep sea fishing - Morehead City, NC
"It's sad when our daddies die. It makes one less person inside." Pamela Ribon.
As the holiday season rolls around, I'm thankful to have loved ones to share my holidays with.
These are all pictures that were taken last Christmas.
I'm thankful to have Donald and Harley and my mom, Hazel. And thankful they're all willing to wear furry Santa hats with me at Christmas. (they are such good sports!).
And I'm thankful we have Donald's family, and thankful we're able to spend time with them during the Christmas holidays.
Sadly, there's one person not in these pictures. He hasn't been in any Christmas pictures for a long, long time now. But I miss him just as much today as I did the day he left us.
My dad. Alan W. Wilkinson.
But I'm awfully thankful to have had him for as many years as we did.
There's a special bond between the two, and if you grew up with a dad like mine it makes for fun and lovely memories. And some terrific stories when you're all grown up. All grown up maybe, but at times miss your dad so badly you feel as small and unprotected as you did when you were 4 and wanted him to chase away the monsters living in your bedroom closet.
Here are a few of my memories of my dad . . .
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. The kitchen was huge and our stove was an old one that sat up on legs. Remember those old stoves? Anyone else have one of those?
A friend of my mother's, Clara Rook, kept bringing me little chicks one Easter. Those pitiful little chicks that people would dye pink and blue and green at Easter time? AWFUL! and, of course, they usually died fairly quickly, bless their hearts. Well, my sweetie pies didn't. They just kept getting bigger and bigger. In an apartment! Daddy knew I loved those chicks. Every time the subject came up about them being too big to live in an apartment, I would start crying. Finally my dad put some chicken wire around the legs of that old stove and put the chickies in there. You just know how much my mother loved this, right? The chicks just kept growing and one morning I woke up hearing my dad yelling some pretty bad words. The chicks had knocked down the chicken wire and they were all hopping on Mom & Dad's bed. For real.
The chicks went to granny's that day. I was told they were going there so they'd have a big yard to "play" in. uh huh. Sunday Dinner. I'll never get over it. We went to my grandmother's for dinner and the minute I walked into the dining room I spied the fried chicken on platters on the table. Mother tells me I just squalled "My Sweetie Pies! Oh Nooooooo - You've cooked my Sweetie Pies!" and cried and cried and cried. Heartbroken. And nobody ate fried chicken that day.
I have a million memories of that apartment. But let me set the record straight - it wasn't a fancy big city type apartment. This was small town living. And we were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we were out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant mingling with the line of people buying tickets to see a movie before we would get upstairs and into our apartment. Since it was a small town and everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are You's?" and get up the stairs to home. And, since neither of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked, we also never knew who might be there waiting for us when we did get home. But it seemed there was always someone. It might have been one of my many aunts or uncle or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends of mine from school. Amazingly enough now as it might sound, it was never cause for concern back then. It was just an accepted thing. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." (There are enough of these stories to keep this little blog of mine going for the next several years.)
There was also a jewelry store owned by Mr. & Mrs. Henry DeVoe in the lobby of the Arcade. Sometimes on Saturdays they would babysit me while Mother did the grocery shopping if Dad had to work. It was the beginning of my love affair with jewelry. Mr. DeVoe was my buddy - he opened my first charge account. Remember the silver bands we called "Friendship Rings?" They were $1.00. Sterling silver bands for $1.00. Can you imagine? Well, I loved those, but would lose them often. He would let me charge one and pay him on installments out of my allowance. About the time I'd have one paid off, I'd lose it and he would let me charge another one.
There was also a beauty shop, and an insurance company and I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with it. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.
I don't think I'd trade my growing up years in Cambridge for a beezillion dollars.
My dad played basketball, and was apparently quite good. While growing up, I would hear stories about his basketball career. Many times in school my teachers and parents of my friends seemed stunned when realizing who I was - that I could be Alan Wilkinson's daughter and not have any more athletic ability than Adam's house cat was just not understood.
I had been gone from Cambridge for many, many years, and my dad had been gone for many years when Donald and I were home for a visit. We had gone out to the High Spot for dinner with our friends Pam and R.T., who I grew up with and graduated from Cambridge High with. Pam said there was someone in the restaurant she wanted me to meet - he had been a friend of my dad's. When she introduced me, he said he had played ball with my dad and besides my dad being quite talented, he had a trait which he admired even more and that was the simple fact that my dad was also a gentleman - off and on the court. "A good, clean playing ballplayer," he said. and I promptly burst into tears.
It's a lovely thing to have someone remember your dad in such a sweet and simple, exceptionally special way.
He was a very good man, my dad.
"My father didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it." Clarence B. Kelland
1. Lewis, 2. Irvin, 3. Roy, 4. Ethel, 5. Alan (my dad), 6. Pop Pop (Irvin), 7. Belle, 8. Grandmother Laura Mae. Picture taken by older brother Ed
Dad taught me to ride a bike - and I vividly remember when he was trying to teach me how to drive a car he made a comment or two about how the bike learning experience had been a whole lot more fun and less traumatic for both of us.
We were all three HUGE Oriole fans and it was a very big deal and very special occasion for us to go to Baltimore for a game. Not as big a deal as going there for a Colt's game, but still a big deal.
And pretty special to get to Ocean City too. (Think he's wondering "What's with the HAT?!)
Pop Pop's 90th Birthday - July 18, 1965
In front - Aunt Belle, Dad
In back - Uncle Lewis, Pop-Pop, Uncle Irv, Uncle Roy, Aunt Ethel, Uncle Ed
Deep sea fishing - Morehead City, NC
"It's sad when our daddies die. It makes one less person inside." Pamela Ribon.
I remember Christmas at our house when I was growing up, of course. What I remember most - more than anything - was that it was always a time of laughter. My dad loved to laugh, and always seemed to find the humor in any situation. But for some reason, Christmas day was especially joyous to him.
He may have laughed so much 'cause I was a bit of a clown . . .
Or I may have been a bit of clown simply because I enjoyed making him laugh.
I can remember his laughter vividly - it boomed. And when he laughed, you just couldn't help but laugh along.
I still hear that wonderful laughter in my heart, and not a Christmas day has gone by since he died that I don't share a chuckle and a tear with him.
I also remember there were two very different types of gifts under the tree. Looking back, I can easily figure out which were from "Mother Santa" and which were from "Father Santa."
Now.
What do you think?
See those drums?
What mother is going to give her only daughter a set of drums for Christmas? Not mine, I can assure you. Know what I remember most about those drums? The big drum ended up with a big hole in it on Christmas day 'cause somebody played the foot pedal too hard. big sigh. I cried and cried.
And those dolls. See those dolls?
I never ever understood the whole doll thing.
They didn't talk. They didn't play. They didn't do anything but sit. Cute and Mute. But no one seemed to notice that I wasn't fond of them and I kept getting more dolls. Every year for my birthday and Christmas I would get dolls. Little bitty dolls. Big stuffed dolls. Dolls dressed to the nines and wearing high heels. I've since asked my mother if I didn't ever just say I didn't like dolls, 'cause even back then I had a tendency to speak whatever was on my mind. She says she doesn't think I did, but they did notice that they didn't get picked up and played with too often. well - that's not exactly true. The ugly homemade dolls did, and the stuffed dolls did. If it was ugly, it won a place in my heart. If it was a soft, stuffed doll, I'd drag it around everywhere. But it if was a pretty little doll, I just couldn't care less. Instead I just played with my imaginary friend that no one else could see, but they all knew about. That friend stayed around for more years than was probably healthy, actually.
THAT is another story for another day. Back to the dolls . . .
I remember trading one doll with a girlfriend for a book. Even then I was a lover of books.
Mother is one who has "pack-rat" tendencies. It's a trait I inherited in spades. She's gotten better about not saving every old ribbon and bow off our gift packages, but she used to save everything. Old report cards, old pictures (thank goodness!), old favorite dresses, and old toys. So it ended up being up to me to get rid of some of those things that had no value other than sentimental. She could not bring herself to do it, so she handed over all my "stuff" and said "do with it what you will." It was easy as pie for me to get rid of those dolls, I gotta tell you. Once they came out of the attic and into my possession, it didn't take long at all. I advertised them in the Atlanta Journal and they were sold within a few days to someone with a doll collection. He was tickled to death to get them, and could not believe what great shape they were in. Some were still safely tucked in their original boxes. I'm not sure, but I think I probably used that little windfall to buy books.
I had Tiny Tears
And I had one of these gorgeous American Beauty Toni dolls
This gal was still wearing a little pearl ring when I sold her. AND high heel shoes.
One of the dolls I did really love though was my Howdy Doody Doll.
He was fun!
I'm sure he talked to me.
sure of it.
and I had a Howdy Doody puppet.
I just loved Howdy Doody.
One year Mother dressed me up as Howdy Doody for Halloween. Actually, it wasn't much of a stretch seeing as how my hair was short and red and I had freckles and I was skinny.
Anyhoooooo . . . .
back to Christmas in Cambridge when I was a kid.
Besides receiving a lot of dolls for Christmas, the other memories that jump to mind immediately are how beautifully the town of Cambridge was decorated.
Even our fire department pulled out all the stops -
Right across the street from our apartment was Phillips Hardware, which had a huge front window. Every year Santa Claus would sit in a big comfy chair in that window and the kiddies would line up to sit on his knee to tell him what they wanted for Christmas.
And every year I'd be one of those kiddies standing in that line.
And then, when it was my turn to sit on Santa's knee I would start crying. Bawling to beat the band and flatly refused to climb up on that strange man's lap. Oddly enough, I wasn't quite that careful about men as I grew older. Oops - ANOTHER story for another time . . . . .
Christmas remained my family's favorite time of the year. Even after I moved away from Cambridge, I would still go home for the holiday. There was only one Christmas in my life that I wasn't with my mom and dad.
Now, of course, I'm all grown up, married to Donald and we share our home with Harley the Wonder Corgi. and Mother comes to our house for Christmas. and we still laugh. lots. and loudly. Dad would be proud.
Pop Pop's 90th Birthday - July 18, 1965
and I had a Howdy Doody puppet.
