Practical Wisdom Archive

My daddy looked just like Gomer Pyle! And being from the southern state of Alabama, he talked a lot like him too. He had big, goofy looking ears and short black hair that was flat and matted to his head.

My brother Billy and I used to make fun of him all of the time; but never in front of his face. We did it behind his back in the privacy of our shared bedroom where we stuck our ears out, pushed our hair down and tried to mimic his ridiculous drawl.

Daddy never cursed but when he got angry or frustrated he gave us our favorite phrase to mock. His face would get all gnarled up and he’d say, “dadgummit.” Billy and I used to love to imitate the innocent stupidity of that remark. We very proudly knew all of the much harsher curse words and would use them frequently—behind Daddy’s back, of course! My little sister paid no attention to our game. She was much too young to understand our sophisticated mockery.

Daddy worked in the oil fields as a rigger and didn’t make much money. I’ll never forget the rank smell of crude oil that permeated our modest house. You could smell him from a block away on his way home at night happily trodding toward the front door which he swung open with the same giddy
remark every night; “Daddy’s home!”

The year was 1969 and I was happy because that meant it was “my” year! Every third year was mine. On my father’s salary, with three kids, we could hardly afford lavish gifts for Christmas. So each year one of us got a “special” gift, while the other two received trinkets. I was thrilled because my turn had finally come around.

Of course I knew exactly what I wanted. I had two whole years to pick it out. It was a bright red bike with a banana seat and u-shaped chrome bar on the back to hold any friend I would let ride with me—-and it cost fifty dollars! Fifty dollars was more than was ever spent on a single child for Christmas in my house but that didn’t matter to me. I couldn’t wait to ride my new bike!

But something was wrong; two weeks before Christmas, Momma and Daddy called me into their room for a talk, which always meant trouble. They very sadly sat me down on the bed and quietly told me I wasn’t going to get my bike. I vaguely remember words like: “It’s been a rough year. Your Father and I just don’t have the money right now. We’ve done the best we could.” Blah, blah, blah! All I knew was—It wasn’t fair! Instead of being the understanding child they had hoped for, my response was fury. I screamed and yelled and ran to my room where Billy waited to hear what happened.

Momma was distant with me for a few days—probably ashamed she’d raised such an ungrateful child. But Daddy never mentioned it again. He acted as though nothing had happened, which made me even more angry. The next few days Billy and I had a heyday making fun of how stupid Daddy looked and how dumb he sounded when he talked.

A few days after my emotional outburst, Momma overheard noise from our bedroom and swung the door open to find Billy and I jumping on the bed like monkeys imitating our goofy looking Father. She broke into a monologue that day that I’ll never forget. She said, “You boys think I don’t know what you’re doing, but I do. I know you’re making fun of Daddy.” She sat us down on the bed and made us listen. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to make fun of the man who works so hard to put food on the table for you to eat and buy you new clothes to wear to school every year. Your Daddy is one of the most giving people you’re ever going to know . I pray to God that the two of you grow up just like him. He works nearly 12 hours a day for his family and never once complains—and do you know why? Just because he loves us, that’s why!” She got up and left us alone to contemplate her scolding. I felt bad—-real bad—but not nearly as bad as I was going to.

Christmas morning I awoke without much enthusiasm. My little sister and Billy ran to see what awaited them under the tree. I moped into the kitchen to get something to drink without passing the living room, or even looking at the tree. I was sure there was nothing under it that I really wanted anyway. I heard Daddy’s deep drawl call me into the living room. “Chris, come in here. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

I dragged myself into the living room astonished to find Daddy standing over my bright red bike with the banana seat. I stood there shocked! Never before, and never since, have my emotions been so mixed. I was half ecstatic and half ashamed. I was elated and embarrassed at the same time, glad to have my bike, and sad because I’d been so cruel to the man who had obviously found some way to buy it.

I later learned from Momma that Daddy had taken a second job for two hours every day just to get the money to buy it. He said it was worth the extra work just to see the look on my face Christmas morning when I saw the bike.

From that Christmas day in 1969 until today, I never made fun of my Daddy again. I am proud to be my Father’s son, and I aspire to be as much like him as possible. And you want to hear something ironic? The other day I took a good look in the mirror and guess whose face I saw staring back at me? You guessed it—-I look just the way my Daddy did in 1969.