Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

June 23, 2006

Fathers Day Stories

Today’s announcements

Publishers Pick:

Today marks the end of the Fathers Day Submissions.  I laughed and I cried and my heart swelled for all the submissions presented here.  I had a father until I was 9 years old, until he blurted out one day that I was not his daughter anyhow.  My whole world changed that day.  All the family I had ever known was not really my family.  My grandmother, who raised me, my father’s mother, was not my grandmother, his sister and brothers were not my uncles and aunt.  My cousins were not my cousin.  I was truly alone. 

I soon realized after much agonizing, that my grandmother will always be my grandmother, in fact she is my mother, the only person is this world that loved me, as I was growing up, but the man that was my father and then decided not to be left a scar that would not heal. 

The last time I saw Kenneth Buckingham, was 25 years ago when he came to my grandmother’s funeral.  My son asked who he was.  Can you imagine that my son did not even know his own grandfather!  I simply replied he is nobody at all. 

Some might judge me for that answer and so be it, but it was my way of dealing with the hurt of rejection.  It was my way to dismiss it and make it seem unimportant, when the exact opposite was true.  It was very material to me, that the man I had known and loved for 9 years of my life disowned me like a pair of old shoes.  I only responded to my son what I felt my father felt in his own heart towards me and mine. 

There were tears in Kenneth’s eyes that day, but I suppose it was grieving over his mother and had relatively nothing to do with what I had said. 

It turned out to be the last day that we saw Kenneth.  After the funeral, he even disowned his own brothers and sister.  The family was never good enough for him.  He had moved on. 

He refused his brother's dying request to see him. Twenty-five years later, I do not know if he is dead or alive.  But I do know that I missed having a father all of my life. 

Some people wonder after my divorce, why I did not return to my maiden name. Part of the reason was that my son needed to feel he was still a part of me and we shared the same name, but the other reason was that I had no name to go back to.  Kenneth Buckingham was not my father, so why should I carry on the hypocrisy of borrowing his name. 

My identity as a human being commenced when I became Carol Roach.  No I am not Mrs. Roach, anymore, but I will always be Carol Roach.  I may marry my beloved Matt, but I will always be Carol Roach, for Carol Roach is the essence of me.

It is for this reason that I can understand, the hurt and the pain and the anger that B.J. felt as he wrote his submission, Putting a Face, a Name on the Homeless, because my father choose to be homeless himself.   

Perhaps, B.J.’s father did not choose to be homeless, perhaps the alcohol ate away at his brain. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, we do not have much to go by.  I do not know the answers, but I do know how B.J. feels.  I know what it is like to grow up without a father; I know that pain is never quite healed. 

Some of you have wonderful memories of fathers and what they have done to enrich your lives and then there are the B.J.’s and Carol’s of the world that cannot truly remember a father’s love, respect, and guidance.   

It is for this reason, that I have chosen B.J.’s story; Putting a Face, a Name on the Homeless as publishers pick for Storytime Tapestry because fathers are not always what we want them or need them to be.

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Father Days Stories

~**~**~

Happy Father's Day

B.J. Cassady
 
       Dad, you have been gone for about forty years now.  You left
me when you were far too young, at the age of 52.  I would like to
thank you for teaching me to be a good father.   Other teenagers
said they wished I was their dad, for being a good grandfather.
Dad did you know I have one great-grandchild and twenty-seven
grandchildren?  I was pack master of my boy's cub scout pack.
I coached each of their baseball teams.  I even worked a second
job in their school so I could eat lunch with them.  I made a point
to take off my regular job so I could enroll them in school each
year.  I loved being a dad... being there for them.
 
      Did you know I ran electric trains for their classes one day a
year?  I would look at their eyes as they stood back with pride
in their eyes as their daddy was there in their classroom.  Later
when a scandal broke out in our neighborhood about a bus driver
who abused a lot of children, I did not worry because I knew where
my children where at all times.  When they played at other children's
homes, I went there with them and visited with the parents. 
 
     When I arrived home from work, we went to the park to play.
I knew my boys were boys and needed to expend some energy.
So we ran and played.  We laughed.  We became weary. 
 
     Perhaps the best memory was our Friday nights.  I would drag
my mattress into the living room and the boys would wrestle each
other (again to drain their energy).  If the tempers became short,
I would stop the game or join it, them versus me.  After supper we
would lay on the mattress and watch TV, tired bodies, pop some
popcorn and watch movies and drift off asleep.  Me and my boys.
Dad and sons.
 
    So Dad I would like to thank you for raising me and teaching me
how to be a father.....but I cannot.  You were not there for me.
You were a father to booze, not your son.  You never played with me.
We never had the father/son times that I craved as a child.  What
you did teach me was how not to raise a child.  What I craved as a
child, I passed on to my children.  I remember you striking my mother,
my children never had to see that ugliness in our home.  I learned
that behavior is accountable by my actions and not inherited or
a learned process.
 
    However, I cannot judge you father.  I do not know what made
you the way you were.  I do forgive you.  So this father's day, I wish
that you may see through my eyes and understand how a father can
be.
 
BJ Cassady
Guthrie, Oklahoma
bj.Cassady@af-group.com

~**~**~

Putting a Face, a Name on the Homeless

B.J. Cassady
 
       I know that man over there who is sleeping on the street.
His name is Bob.  I worked in the same place where he worked a
long time ago.  We sat at the same table and broke bread together.
He smiled when he saw me....you see this person is my father.
He was my father.  This scene was 1966.  My father worked at one
time for Boeing in Wichita, but his drinking started to peel away his
choices, finally he was a janitor, then working odd jobs, then nothing.
     
      His influence on me was both frightening and life-changing.  I
used to hide under the bed when he came home.   He would drag
bar room buddies home and want to show off his boy.  I remember
taking green medicine from the doctor to calm my stomach and
nerves.  I used to pass out a lot as a child.  I also had a violent
temper as a child.  I was an introvert, very shy.  I did not like to
bring anyone home.  I remember looking down the stairs and seeing
my father dragging my mother by her hair and hitting her.  I was
too young to wonder why.  I could only hide in terror.  I lived in terror.
It was with great relief when mom divorced my father.  We did not
have to be afraid anymore.....or did we?  He had visiting rights.
 
      I was dragged to bars and put on the bar and other drunks
would tell me not to drink and give me money.  My dad would take
the money and buy more booze.  The memories of the flea-trap
hotels and the scary sounds of the drunks that lived there stayed
with me for years.  I even remember when his mother went with
me to a local bar to get him out so he could visit with me and my
father response...he hit this sweet old grey-haired lady and knocked
her to the ground.
    Finally his spiral became so deep that he did not even contact me
that much.  When was the last time?  Was it when I was in the military
and he said he was reformed and wanted to see me?  I told him my
car was in poor shape.  He said he had a good job and would fix it. 
I drove to his home and when I saw him, he was drunk and he asked
to borrow some money.  My car died on the spot.  Yes, I think that
was the last time. 
 
      If you are a person who is in the early stages of this cycle, or
are a family member of a person seek help.  I was too young.  I
knew nothing of AA or ALANON or other organizations.  Perhaps
my father could not have been saved.  I will never know, but dying
alone, homeless, at the age of 52 is heartbreaking, sad and a waste.
 
B.J. Cassady
Guthrie, Oklahoma

bj.Cassady@af-group.com

B.J. Cassady is a Stephen Minister at  Edmond Trinity Church and ISD professional

in Guthrie, Oklahoma.  A disabled Vietnam  era USAF vet,  BJ enjoys giving back to

the world with his writings and is putting  together a CD audio collection of his best

writings.  For further information please write: bj.enterprises @juno.com

Also look for his story 'Medals' in  "More Patriot Hearts" by Lt Col William

Coffey and "The Quilt".

~**~**~

A FATHER TO LOVE

Jene' Lind 

As a child, I never could understand why my daddy was so angry all the

time. He was very seldom home and more often than not, when he was,

he would be yelling at all of us, or hitting my mother. He would slap her

and make us go into the living room and sit on the couch. When there is

one couch an a bare floor and dirty windows...with 8 siblings there was

not much room on the couch and definitely nothing to do while in the

living room. 

This was the time one of my older siblings would tell us a story. They would

hold us and tell us a story of when they grew up they would build a big house

with grass in the yard, and trees and a swing and we could have flowers, a

kitty and dog and we would all live happily ever after. Looking back I know

it was hard for those older siblings who ranged from age 10-15 to cope with

an alcoholic father and crippled step mother much less all the younger sib-

lings to help care for. But that is another story.

My daddy was in my past by the time I was 8 years old but I never stopped look-

ing for him behind every tree, in every corner or around every building. I would

dream of him at night coming to "get" me. And "get" was not good. I thought

I would be in trouble for not being home. I did not realize he would never be

able to "get" me because his parental rights were taken away. I was told he

didn't want any of his children and that caused me to take each one of my

siblings and in my childish way think maybe it was their fault. Not mine. Oh,

I knew no daddy wanted a little girl that was nearly deaf. She couldn't hear

him when he called from the next room. Or hear what he said from across

the room. But he also wouldn't want a little boy who was scrawny and couldn't

catch a ball. None of his children had pretty clothes and the little ones were

always dirty. No, he couldn't love them. He couldn't love his teenage girls who

wouldn't even have a meal on the table when he came home when he decided

he would try to be a daddy again. Never mind there was no food to cook for him.

No, my daddy couldn't be a daddy.

When my daddy died, I did not know him. I lived far away from where he was

buried. But I did have an older sibling who was fortunate enough to know him,

or unfortunate enough; however, one would want to look at it. And he did call

to let me know my daddy was dead. It was not till that day that I was able to

breathe a sigh of relief that no more would my daddy try to find me and maybe

hurt me. Yes, I feared my daddy. But I didn't want to. I wished I had a daddy like

my friends had. I wished my daddy would have loved me. I wish I could have

loved my daddy. I could not grieve for a strange man I did not know. I didn't

even have a face to put with the man. To this day...I cannot grieve. Not for a

father who only left haunting memories in my mind. But I can forgive. 

For years after my daddy died I thought of him all the time. I often wondered

why he was the way he was. Even though I had many memories that were bad,

I could recall that occasionally my daddy was loving. Or he must have been. I

don't have very many happy memories but I seem to recall his giving me a comb.

It was amber colored and it was the kind of comb you use to keep your hair from

falling down. A little rounded comb. He told me I had angel hair, and tucked the

comb in the side of my golden blonde curls.  I remember my daddy playing the

violin and other times playing a guitar and singing. He loved to sing with my

brothers, especially. If they sang loud enough I could hear the harmony and oh,

how I loved it when Daddy sang. He taught all of us to sing. And loved to listen

to us sing. When he was home. But he wasn't there often. We could tell what

kind of mood he would be in by the way he walked in. If he came in smiling

and saying, " hey how's my little family tonight?" Well, I knew he would be

happy to see me and would probably play his violin. My daddy was happy

when he was playing violin. He would sit out on the balcony in the summer

and play, and delighted when some one would call up from below and say,

" Hey Mister, can you play Arkansas Traveler"?  He always smiled and said,

" sure thing"  and start playing it. Yes, my daddy must have loved me then.

But as time wore on and times got hard, back to the drinking and anger. This

was why I just knew my daddy didn't love me. Until :  My mother died. When

my mother died, a relative sent me the family bible. It was so strange to be

reading dates and such in a Family Bible and feel like a stranger to that bible.

But the more I read birth announcements, wedding entries, military records,

and such. I found out my daddy may not have ever shown love to his children

and we may not have known where he was through those years, but he knew

a lot about us. In that family bible he had recorded the birth of every one of

his children  AND grandchildren. Even MY marriage was recorded. He even

had the correct date. He had the dates all three of my brothers entered the

military. The year they left the military and what rank they were at the time.

He recorded every advancement. He knew just when my brother became a

Master Sergeant.  He knew when my youngest brother made Chief Warrant

Officer. He knew every place they had toured. Which war which brother

served in. He recorded every marriage of his children and who they were

married to. He even recorded the date of birth of my oldest daughter and the

death of his little grand daughter. Yes, this stranger did not know how to be

a daddy and show love to his family but my heart now can grieve for a daddy

I could not love. He must have been hurting deep inside to know what pain

he had inflicted on his children who never got to know  him. In life, he was

a Father to fear. In Death...a Father to love. 

Jene' Lind

ImAuthor4u@aol.com

Readers Feedback

For those who have a father living, though you may be miles apart, pick up that phone and dial his number and wish him a Happy Father's Day.

I would give anything if I could call my father just one more time.

Sharon

Sweet angelsister, Carol,

Please let angelsister, Mary Dees, know how much I appreciate her comments about my poem, 'She Didn't Know I Listen'd'.  I am so thankful it was a blessing to her and, I pray, was to your many other readers, as well.

I have been enjoying all the Father's Day stories and tributes, Carol.   Thanks so much for sharing them.

Happy Father's Day to all our dads in Storytime Tapestry:-)

Love and blessings, Mary Carter Mizrany

Sweet angelsister, Helen,

How beautifully written your story/poem about your dad's faith;  like Elijah and the rain cloud. It is a wonderful poem and your writing of your dad is heart~touching, also.  Thanks so much for sharing with us:-) Love and blessings, Mary Carter Mizrany

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

                                     Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Booher, Paula; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria;

Dowd, Hartson; Dowd, Helen; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Gold, Ron; Goodier, Steve; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Henry, Linda Ann; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnston - moderator