I was three years old when we moved from the Big Island to O’ahu. My Dad owned a small garage door company, and made it a point to bring one of his kids to work with him whenever he could. Growing up with five siblings and a busy father, I loved any occasion where I had all of Dad’s attention. A day of work with him was just that sort of occasion.
I was four years old. My parents’ shower was still under construction, so Dad used the guest bathroom. The sound of the shower water woke me at 6:30 in the morning. I wrapped my green and pink knit blanket around my shoulders, and stumbled off the top bunk trying not to wake my sister, Grace, sleeping in the bottom bunk. I stepped over the piles of toys and clothes covering our messy floor. I hurried down the hall, past my brothers’ room, my sister’s room, and past the guest bathroom where I could hear Daddy singing. My feet welcomed the scratchy, tan carpet barely covering the living room floor. The ceiling was so low that my six-foot tall Dad sometimes bumped his head on the two oriental fans hanging at each end of the room. I hopped on to the overstuffed purple couch under the fish tank. Though the temperature could not have been lower than 65 degrees outside, I shivered under my little pink and green blanket.
I smiled to myself in anticipation of a day filled with ‘helping’ Dad. Going to work with Dad meant I could push the buttons on the radio in the car, watch Dad magically transform mad customers, and hand Dad tools as he installed a door. Plus, he always gave me a gumball from his stash in the glove box of his white Raynor truck.
It took Dad about fifteen minutes to finish his shower. My excitement wasn’t enough to keep me awake for that long. I fell asleep. When he came out of the bathroom, I woke up with a thrill of excitement. The sight of me waiting on the couch was common enough, but this morning he looked surprised. Hopeful, I asked him if I could go to work with him all day.
My Dad is and was not usually an apologetic person. He apologized when needed, but as far as his children were concerned, he usually just said it like it was. Life was not fair, and he made sure we understood that, in a loving way, of course. Though, this morning when he saw me on the couch, he seemed to melt a little. His shoulders sagged. He compassionately told me he was so sorry, but he had a bunch of confidential meetings and boring paperwork scheduled. I could see he felt badly, so I smiled and said it was ok even though I felt deeply let down. He promised to take me to work with him a different day. Then he put on his watch and grabbed his big, leather day-planner and said goodbye.
I did not cry. I probably would have if my baby brother, Mike, had not started crying just then. The disappointment made a lump in my throat as I dropped my blanket and went to wake up Mom...
This was the first assignment for my psych class (reformatted for bloggage).
You must understand this was one instance out of gazillions that I sat on the couch waiting for my Daddy. And it was very, very rare for him to refuse me. Maybe that's why I remember it so vividly.
I grew up observing and learning from my dear salesman Dad.
He brought me in to formal meetings and out to the warehouse, and I feel absolutely blessed that he let me tag along. Love you, Dad!
