Lessons From My Father, 2007, by Debbie Schwebach

From MemoryArchive

Who:  Debbie Schwebach
What: Lessons from my father
When: March 6, 2007
Where: St. Joseph

Songs. Dad is a singer and a whistler. There was seldom silence in our house; it was always filled with Dad’s music. Sometimes it was a lullaby; sometimes it was a hymn. At other times it was just a silly song that would brighten the day. I loved Dad’s singing, and I especially loved his whistling. He is definitely my "American Idol.” I’ve included some of my favorites.

Dad-isms. These are things that Dad has said over the years, little bits of wisdom – words I’ve found myself saying at various times.

My Thoughts. Thinking about moments that define who I am, it wasn’t long before I realized that my dad was a part of nearly every significant aspect of my life. I decided then to explain how my dad has influenced me. I don’t mean the usual “raise up a child in the way he should go” influences, but little things that I didn’t catch until I began writing a tribute for him that would be a gift for his 75th birthday. So, while this is a tribute to my dad, it was a learning experience for me. His music and his sayings are two of the subtle but huge influences in my life. I have heard myself drop those dad-isms to my own children, and (probably thanks to him) I have music running through my brain 24/7. My kids make fun of me sometimes because I’m always singing or humming – I’ve even been known to hum while I eat!

Macnamara’s Band

My name is Macnamara

I’m the leader of the band.

Although we’re few in number

We’re the finest in the land.

We play at wakes and weddings

And at every fancy ball,

And when we play at funerals,

We play the March of Saul.

The drums they bang,

The cymbals clang,

The horns they blaze away,

Macarthy puffs the old bassoon,

And I the pipes do play.

Hennessey tuteily tootles the flute,

The music is something grand,

And a credit to old Ireland's boys

Is Macnamara’s Band.

Do what makes you happy. Right now, I’m happy as a clam sitting here talking with you. We can’t change what happened five seconds ago and we don’t know what will happen five seconds from now. You have a choice. Choose happiness now – right this very second. The first house I remember was on 53 Terrace in Kansas City. It was a small ranch style two bedroom home that Dad built. I was six when we left that house and moved in the basement of my grandma and grandpa’s house. Dad began attending chiropractic college at night and worked construction during the day. We didn’t get to see him much, but the time we spent together was always meaningful. Our family didn’t have much money when I was little, but it never kept us from having fun. While rolling along in the family Chevy, it wouldn’t be long before Dad would erupt in a song. “Over the River and Through the Woods” was a favorite, but the real fun began with “Macnamera’s Band.” Our little voices didn’t always get the words quite right, but it was not possible to be anything but happy when “Hennessey Tennessee tootles the flute.”

Thank you, Dad, for optimism!

In The Garden

I come to the garden alone

While the dew is still on the roses

And the voice I hear,

Falling on my ear

The Son of God discloses.

And he walks with me

And he talks with me

And he tells me I am His own

And the joy we share

As we tarry there

None other has ever known.

Look for the positive – it’s there. Those old black clouds are gonna roll in from time to time, but ol’ Mr. Sun is gonna keep burning right though them til they’re gone. Can’t stay cloudy forever – that’s a fact. Without those clouds, how could we appreciate the sun. It may take a him while to show through – but he’s always shining. “I got you something,” said Dad after he had returned from a trip to Michigan to attend a class. I opened the velvety blue box and inside was a delicate gold chain that had a round clear case a tiny mustard seed in it. Behind the case, attached to the chain was a small gold rectangle engraved with the words, “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, nothing shall be impossible unto you.” I thought that necklace was the most beautiful gift I had ever received. The next day at school I told my teacher the story of the mustard seed. “Daddy,” I cried when I got home from school, “my necklace is gone! We looked in my classroom, in the bathroom, the lunchroom, and the playground. It’s just gone.” I had worn it everyday for seven months and now it was gone. He hugged me, looked into my tears, and said, “but you still have the message.”

Thank you, Dad, for faith!

Silver Bells

City sidewalk,

Busy sidewalks

Dressed in holiday style.

In the air

There's a feeling of Christmas.

Children laughing,

People passing,

Meeting smile after smile,

And on every street corner

You'll hear:

Silver bells, silver bells,

It's Christmas time in the city.

Ring-a-ling, hear them ring,

Soon it will be Christmas day.

Cooking is an art, just like anything else you create. You have to put your best into it, if you want to get the best out of it. Always remember that anything worth doing is worth doing well. Usually on Sunday mornings, Dad was in charge of breakfast. We never knew what he would make. One of my favorites was his gourmet breakfast. It consisted of a piece of toast, lightly buttered. On top of the toast he placed a hard cooked egg, a slice of cheese and four asparagus spears. I was totally impressed. “Where do you get your recipes, Daddy?” “Who needs a recipe; just be creative,” he’d say. “If everything you put in is good, you can’t miss!” One Christmas recipe that became an annual event was Dad’s Icebox Cake. It was expensive to make, so he only made it at Christmas. He would sing and whistle as he mixed the ingredients. Then he’d, carefully place each vanilla wafer in the rectangular Pyrex dish and begin building the layered dessert. To be honest, I didn’t like the cake at all, but the fact that Dad enjoyed making it so much caused me to look forward to the Christmas confection.

Thank you, Dad, for tradition!

High Hopes

Just what makes that little old ant

Think he'll move that rubber tree plant

Anyone knows an ant, can't

Move a rubber tree plant!

But he's got high hopes,

He's got high hopes.

He's got high apple pie, in the sky hopes

So any time your gettin' low

'stead of lettin' go

Just remember that ant!

Oops there goes another rubber tree plant!

Things don’t always go our way. It teams of scientists and millions of dollars to send the first rocket to the moon, and guess what – they missed! The trajectory was off. They went back, changed the trajectory, tried again, and it worked! So when things don’t go the way you want them to – change your trajectory! At 18, I quit high school, got married and had a daughter. Although I had enough credits to receive my diploma, I still felt that I had made some choices that would keep me from having the future I had dreamed of. I had wanted to be an English teacher since the 8th grade, but now I couldn’t see how that could possibly happen. “I don’t know what else to do,” I told my dad. “I’ll never get to be a teacher now.” I felt selfish even thinking about what I wanted “I don’t think raised you to give up on dreams,” Dad said. “If you want it badly enough, you have to believe it will happen and then work to make it happen.” He took me to Missouri Western to enroll for college and gave me the tuition for my first semester. Four years later, I graduated with a B.S. in Education.

Thank you, Dad, for dreams!

Daddy’s Little Girl

You're the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold,

You're daddy's little girl to have and to hold.

A precious gem is what you are,

You're mommy's bright and shining star.

You're the spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree,

You're the Easter Bunny to mommy and me;

You're sugar, you're spice,

You're everything nice,

And you're daddy's little girl.

Dad wrote this letter to my mother on March 11, 1952: “Honey this is the greatest day of my life. I’m so glad that we have our baby. She is the sweetest thing that ever lived, next to you. I’ll never forget her little face when I first saw her; those little eyes, her black hair, and that little fist in her face.” In our living room was a big green rocker recliner. Although dad called it his “leather chair,” it was really just vinyl. My fondest memories are sitting on his lap as he would softly sing “Daddy’s Little Girl” for what seemed like hours. They were hours that I never wanted to end. As I got older, he didn’t sing it to me anymore, but I would hear him humming it or whistling it, and then I would catch the sparkle in his eyes and find myself right back on his lap in that “leather chair.” I used to sing the song to my own children and after changing the words a little, I sang it to my grandchildren. Every once in a while though, I sing it to myself and feel Dad’s love.

Thank you, Dad, for love.

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