A Long Stride : In My Father’s Footprints

Sometimes I wish I could find my way back to a simpler time, when things felt good, problems belonged to someone else, and worries were few and far between.

Lately my memories keep reaching back to the days when I was a boy and my father still held the center of the house.

Upon his shoulders lay the challenges of the household: the bills, the unexpected repairs—plumbing, electrical, sewer, and so much more. If the television or the radio died, if the typewriter, the sewing machine, the vacuum, or even a light went out, it was Dad to the rescue. He was the fix-all and be-all of our world.

When I think of the years he was with us, I remember feeling safe whenever he was near. His stories of youth filled the car on road trips, especially when we had a chance to see something of our history. I wish I had scribbled those tales down so I could share them with you now. He could spin a yarn I imagine was passed down from his grandfather, who was said to have the same spark.

I lost a good deal of time with him to a sleep that would overtake him and hold him for hours. Once he fell into it, he was gone and could not be roused. I still wonder where he went in that slumber. Perhaps, like me today, he was dreaming of a simpler time when his own father stood at the center of his world—a place where sleep lifted the tasks, the fears, and the responsibilities. No matter. He always woke refreshed and went back at it full steam.

He taught me to pitch a baseball and to play cards. More than that, he taught the lessons of life and the skills of fixing and building—the things he believed a man should know. Men, in his world, worked, provided, taught boys to become men, advised, and solved problems. They stood ready to protect the women and the young. My mother seldom needed protecting; she was a force to be reckoned with herself.

Dad left us too soon, at 54. I miss him every day, especially when I catch myself using a lesson he left me. I wish I could once more set my little shoes in the footprints he made as he walked ahead. I hope I measure up to that stride.

Read more of Randall’s writing at the Store.