A Fathers Day Tribute to My Dad
by Sandy Penny, http://writingmuse.com
I just realized that my parents met in 1926. How can that be? That seems like several lifetimes ago. James Leonard DuBoise met Jeffie Lou McFerrin at a County Fair on a Ferris Wheel. My mother was only 14, but she was 5' 9" tall. Today my father would be arrested. He was 28. They fell in love while stuck at the top of the Ferris Wheel for 15 minutes while a repair was made. Or was it fate?
Her father did not want them to get together. My dad was a widower already and had a little daughter, Belle, and the fact that he had already been married was shameful in those days. But they ran off and got married anyway, to Arkansas where they didn't need parental permission. They lived on a farm as sharecroppers in those days, and my father did a little carpentry work and house building. I understand he loved fast cars and used to drive night runs for moonshiners.
They had been together for 42 years when my father died in 1969. I was only 18 when he passed. They had 10 children who survived, and more that didn't make it. I was number 9. I loved him with all my heart. My favorite photo, which I don't have, was of him in his carpenter's overalls holding his long toolkit in one hand and my hand in the other. I was five years old. He took me with him to a little carpentry job he had contracted.
I colored at the kitchen table while he did some remodeling. And I had my first cup of tea when the house owners offered me one. I was scared I would not like it and refused at first, but they added milk and sugar, and I tried it, and it was delicious.
One thing I loved about my dad was that he got up early every morning, five a.m. He would sweep the entire downstairs floors before anyone got up, except that I would get up at six a.m. and see him still sweeping. I love spending that morning time with him, alone. My mother was not well, and she would sleep later. My brothers had to be dragged out of bed, but I was always up and sitting at the kitchen table, eating, reading or doing homework or just talking with my dad.
Daddy loved to dress up. He wore suits most of the time, a Stetson hat in the winter, and a straw hat in the summertime. He ironed his own starched white shirts and creased his pants to a razor's edge. He had lots of nice ties as well, and cufflinks. He shopped the rummage sales for all the best clothing he could find, and always looked nice, even if we were poor and living in a government housing project. He had pride in his appearance.
Jim DuBoise was known at the local bars for drinking a bit too much, but he was a happy drunk, and when he drank, he played banjo, guitar, Jews harp, harmonica and a little piano while he sang country songs. I loved hearing him sing. He used to sing a song that my mother loved called "A Little Poplar Cabin in the Woods." I never knew until recently that he wrote that song for her. She was a country girl at heart. and loved to grow things: plants and kids. His natural musical skill was awesome. I saw him sit down at a piano, never having played before and start picking out songs in five minutes.
After he died, one Fathers Day, I wrote him a song: "When I was a baby my daddy used to play on his banjo and guitar each and every day. He said, you got to have music, music in your soul, you got to have music, cause music makes you whole. You got to have music, music in your heart, you got to have music, cause you had it from the start." I think that's why I match song lyrics to conversations all the time.
Back in my childhood days, people took their kids to the local taverns with them. My mother never went. She was a Christian woman who never drank or smoked or even played cards. I met his friends, and we called them all aunts and uncles. One couple gave me a beautiful cowgirl doll with a china face and braided hair for my birthday. It was the most wonderful doll I ever owned. Later, one of my brother's stupid friends threw it on the sidewalk and broke the face. One of the saddest days of my little life. I sure did have trouble with boys in those days.
My dad was a good man. He'd give you the shirt off his back, literally, if you needed it. He used to bring in bums off the street and let them have a bath and give them a suit of clothes he got at a rummage sale. My mother would feed them, and most had never had such wonderful tasting food. She was the best cook and was willing to feed anyone who stepped through her door. The men would leave clean shaven, freshly shod in shoes my dad repaired and re-soled himself, and well-fed for days.
One Christmas, daddy built doll beds for my sister Patty and me. They had scalloped headboards, were painted blue and pink, and were strong enough for us to climb all over with no chance of breaking them. We were delighted. That same year, my sister Anne gave us new dolls, so the beds were perfect timing. They lasted us until we grew up and left home when my mother passed them on to a new batch of grandkids. My dad also built a high chair that lasted through all his kids. It was so sturdy and the perfect height for us to sit at the table with the grownups.
My dad only went to the eighth grade. That was not uncommon back then. But he was an avid reader, could build anything, fix anything and do anything he set his mind to. He was a hard worker and a perfectionist carpenter. I used to help him mow lawns just to spend more time with him, and he would cut the grass, and I would edge it and clean up the cuttings. He instructed me all along the way to make sure it was perfect. Everyone loved his work. I get my strong work ethic from him.
My dad fell from a ladder on a construction job and broke his back in the late 1950s. He was lucky to survive that fall. He shrank 3 inches from the loss of calcium in his spine. He was considered disabled after that and had to wear a back brace all the time and sleep with a board under his mattress. I think that increased his drinking, self-medicating for the pain.
He drank too much, for sure, but he gave every penny of his hard-earned money to my mother for the family. He bought his wine with extra money he earned from odd jobs, playing music, selling scrap metal and pawning his guitars. As a teenager, I was often embarrassed to see him stumbling down the street, and would pretend not to see him. Teenagers are fraught with embarrassment. But he was never abusive to my mother or his children, and we all love him dearly. We never went hungry, and always always knew we were loved.
Happy Fathers Day, Daddy. We all love and miss you and hope you're playing your music wherever you are and that Roy and J.W. are there with you jamming that country beat.
by Sandy Penny, http://writingmuse.com
I just realized that my parents met in 1926. How can that be? That seems like several lifetimes ago. James Leonard DuBoise met Jeffie Lou McFerrin at a County Fair on a Ferris Wheel. My mother was only 14, but she was 5' 9" tall. Today my father would be arrested. He was 28. They fell in love while stuck at the top of the Ferris Wheel for 15 minutes while a repair was made. Or was it fate?
Her father did not want them to get together. My dad was a widower already and had a little daughter, Belle, and the fact that he had already been married was shameful in those days. But they ran off and got married anyway, to Arkansas where they didn't need parental permission. They lived on a farm as sharecroppers in those days, and my father did a little carpentry work and house building. I understand he loved fast cars and used to drive night runs for moonshiners.
They had been together for 42 years when my father died in 1969. I was only 18 when he passed. They had 10 children who survived, and more that didn't make it. I was number 9. I loved him with all my heart. My favorite photo, which I don't have, was of him in his carpenter's overalls holding his long toolkit in one hand and my hand in the other. I was five years old. He took me with him to a little carpentry job he had contracted. I colored at the kitchen table while he did some remodeling. And I had my first cup of tea when the house owners offered me one. I was scared I would not like it and refused at first, but they added milk and sugar, and I tried it, and it was delicious.
One thing I loved about my dad was that he got up early every morning, five a.m. He would sweep the entire downstairs floors before anyone got up, except that I would get up at six a.m. and see him still sweeping. I love spending that morning time with him, alone. My mother was not well, and she would sleep later. My brothers had to be dragged out of bed, but I was always up and sitting at the kitchen table, eating, reading or doing homework or just talking with my dad.
Daddy loved to dress up. He wore suits most of the time, a Stetson hat in the winter, and a straw hat in the summertime. He ironed his own starched white shirts and creased his pants to a razor's edge. He had lots of nice ties as well, and cufflinks. He shopped the rummage sales for all the best clothing he could find, and always looked nice, even if we were poor and living in a government housing project. He had pride in his appearance.
Jim DuBoise was known at the local bars for drinking a bit too much, but he was a happy drunk, and when he drank, he played banjo, guitar, Jews harp, harmonica and a little piano while he sang country songs. I loved hearing him sing. He used to sing a song that my mother loved called "A Little Poplar Cabin in the Woods." I never knew until recently that he wrote that song for her. She was a country girl at heart. and loved to grow things: plants and kids. His natural musical skill was awesome. I saw him sit down at a piano, never having played before and start picking out songs in five minutes.
After he died, one Fathers Day, I wrote him a song: "When I was a baby my daddy used to play on his banjo and guitar each and every day. He said, you got to have music, music in your soul, you got to have music, cause music makes you whole. You got to have music, music in your heart, you got to have music, cause you had it from the start." I think that's why I match song lyrics to conversations all the time.
Back in my childhood days, people took their kids to the local taverns with them. My mother never went. She was a Christian woman who never drank or smoked or even played cards. I met his friends, and we called them all aunts and uncles. One couple gave me a beautiful cowgirl doll with a china face and braided hair for my birthday. It was the most wonderful doll I ever owned. Later, one of my brother's stupid friends threw it on the sidewalk and broke the face. One of the saddest days of my little life. I sure did have trouble with boys in those days.
My dad was a good man. He'd give you the shirt off his back, literally, if you needed it. He used to bring in bums off the street and let them have a bath and give them a suit of clothes he got at a rummage sale. My mother would feed them, and most had never had such wonderful tasting food. She was the best cook and was willing to feed anyone who stepped through her door. The men would leave clean shaven, freshly shod in shoes my dad repaired and re-soled himself, and well-fed for days.
One Christmas, daddy built doll beds for my sister Patty and me. They had scalloped headboards, were painted blue and pink, and were strong enough for us to climb all over with no chance of breaking them. We were delighted. That same year, my sister Anne gave us new dolls, so the beds were perfect timing. They lasted us until we grew up and left home when my mother passed them on to a new batch of grandkids. My dad also built a high chair that lasted through all his kids. It was so sturdy and the perfect height for us to sit at the table with the grownups.My dad only went to the eighth grade. That was not uncommon back then. But he was an avid reader, could build anything, fix anything and do anything he set his mind to. He was a hard worker and a perfectionist carpenter. I used to help him mow lawns just to spend more time with him, and he would cut the grass, and I would edge it and clean up the cuttings. He instructed me all along the way to make sure it was perfect. Everyone loved his work. I get my strong work ethic from him.
My dad fell from a ladder on a construction job and broke his back in the late 1950s. He was lucky to survive that fall. He shrank 3 inches from the loss of calcium in his spine. He was considered disabled after that and had to wear a back brace all the time and sleep with a board under his mattress. I think that increased his drinking, self-medicating for the pain.
He drank too much, for sure, but he gave every penny of his hard-earned money to my mother for the family. He bought his wine with extra money he earned from odd jobs, playing music, selling scrap metal and pawning his guitars. As a teenager, I was often embarrassed to see him stumbling down the street, and would pretend not to see him. Teenagers are fraught with embarrassment. But he was never abusive to my mother or his children, and we all love him dearly. We never went hungry, and always always knew we were loved.
Happy Fathers Day, Daddy. We all love and miss you and hope you're playing your music wherever you are and that Roy and J.W. are there with you jamming that country beat.
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