I Am My Father... ...And I'm Fine With That

It's 4 a.m.  I've been up since 2.

The freight train is rolling along the tracks about two miles away.  I turn towards the window to listen to the sound of the whistle, taking in the sweet fragrance of the night air and the vanilla glow of the moon.

The musical chord triggers that memory again: Me, waiting at home for my father to get off work and come home from the steel mill at 11 pm.

All of a sudden a new sensation envelops me: Another feeling I used to get as a child, back when my father walked through the house at 3 a.m. The combination of serenity and security. He got up every night to make sure that everything and everyone were okay. I pretended to be sound asleep but I'm quite sure he knew I was watching him through half-closed eyes as he stopped, then passed my room. And I did watch him, almost every night, as I listened to his tired steps in the silence of the dark.

On his lee I never felt alone, afraid or unprotected.  Because of those slow, heavy footsteps, his menacing figure, his commanding presence, I always felt comfort.  Because of his existence, I had the unwritten assurance that no harm would befall us. Not, nor EVER on HIS watch. He would die protecting his family. 

I never took the value of having my father around for granted. I always appreciated having him in my life (even on those nights that I slept on my stomach because my butt was still glowing, throbbing and humming as a consequence of the previous day's mischief).  


Crazy as it sounds, I thank him for every ONE of those whoopin's because they kept me out of jail and the cemetery.  Well, I thank him NOW.  Back then...?  HELLLLL no...

Years later, I created my own "Davis Crew" and a home in a different city.  And every night I heard that familiar late-night call from the passing train.  It always gave me that old feeling and it reminded me: "Protect my family".  So I kept with his practice as I walked through the house in the early mornings.  

Some nights, I took the time to appreciate what God has blessed me with; a home and a family.
Some nights, I just watched and listened to them breathe, wondering what my father used to think.

REAL men raise men to be real fathers...

I laugh because as towering as he was in those days, I am now taller and larger in frame.  Like him, I woke around 3 a.m. without an alarm and began my sentry duty at each room entrance for a few moments before continuing my rounds.   I tried to walk softly, but my children told me they could heard me on many a night and watched me whenever they could.  

Go figure.

I know the importance of being in my children's lives, even today, now that they're young men. 
And even though they often act as if they don't need me, they constantly do things to remind themselves that they do.  Just as I did things to remind myself that I needed him, even after I'd gone to college and the subsequent years.  Especially when I had my sons.  That was when my dad became my best friend.  From that point, our telephone conversations took on an entirely different feel.  We talked as old chums and most of the time I was asking for advice as a young father. Those times were incredible.  I learned a side of the man that I had never known.   

And I never missed the opportunity to call him on Father's Day and say, "Happy Yo' Day, Dad..."

But now that he's gone, well...  you get it.  Sometimes, I just mutter it softly to him, to myself.

Today, the sons that still live at home have to be told to keep it down because they're up late at night; entertaining friends in the basement, microwaving and gaming online, knowing they have to be up in a few hours for work.  They don't need my protection as much, if at all.  Collectively AND individually, they could stomp a mudhole in most any (unarmed) intruder - and that's putting it mildly.  This is what happens when you raise vicious lions with the hearts of lambs.  

The Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse (Brandon, Jason, Kenny Jr. and Kevin)

But it doesn't stop me from getting up and walking around to make sure all is well.  If nothing else, to ensure that they haven't set the stage for a house fire.  Lord knows I wake up from the smell of burning pizza more often than I care to.

And when I return to bed, I'm sure my thoughts parallel his.  
I know that in the end, they're going to be alright, long after I'm gone.

***********************

On this day, I share these thoughts without any mention of memories of my father's miraculous deeds.  No tales of wonder.  No stories of the real Superman. You've heard and will continue to hear about them in my past and future posts.  

Today, my message is simple...

I MISS my father. "Big Ken" Davis.
I HONOR my father.  He was and will always be, my hero.

I LOVE my father.  He loved his family as I love mine.

I AM my father...              ...and I'm just fine with that.

Happy Yo' Day, Dad.

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