Life's Lessons: My Daddy's Eulogy
DeLynn Hendricks Mitchell
photo by Melissa Millecam
I am completely unable to articulate how little I want to do this. How little I want to be up here in front of all of you wonderful people thinking of all the things I could possibly tell you in order to accurately portray the man that I knew my father to be. But yet, here we are. And he was so many things to so many people and, as time moves on, these memories will make us smile and the sting will lessen. So….who was my daddy?
How many of you know Mary Hendricks? Mary is my 93 year old grandmother, my father’s mother, and arguably one of the most amazing women I’ve ever known. She’s strong and kind, warm and loyal. And she saved my father. What you may not know is how this came to pass. My grandparents gave birth to my aunt Vicki, but struggled through neverending nightmares in attempts to have more children of their own. They partnered with the local Catholic church in Spokane and put their name on the list to be adoptive parents. My grandma had a tender heart, one that had been broken time and time again in pursuits of finding that baby to complete their family. In an effort to protect her heart, she refused to prepare. “We are not building a nursery for a baby we don’t have”, she said. She would hope and she would pray, but she wouldn’t let herself get her hopes up. Then, on June 10, 1953, her priest called. There was a baby boy and he belonged to them. She had no bottles, no bassinet, nothing to indicate she was ready for a newborn, but her heart….her heart was. They rushed to the hospital to meet my daddy and it was love at first sight. My daddy was a healer of broken hearts.
My daddy entered his new home with a three year old sister. Bossy and sassy, she was his everything for many years and they grew up hand in hand across the United States, as they trailed their Marine father. As young adults in Virginia Beach, VA, in the 70’s, they’d spend time in the Chesapeake crabbing. They’d roll out of bed, arm themselves with a ball of string and buckets and head down to the local grocery store for packs of chicken necks. They’d tie the string around the chicken necks, wade out in the Chesapeake and wait for the crabs to tug, then flip them up into the waiting buckets. They’d spend an hour or two in the bay, talking, laughing and crabbing. They’d haul them back to the apartment, cook them up and create a spread for friends. As long as I can remember, one of my daddy’s favorite things was fresh crab dipped in melted butter. My daddy was a free spirit.
I was a shy kid. Introverted, a touch socially awkward, and very quiet. Years later, when I was worried about sending my oldest child to daycare the first time, my dad told me the story of my first day of kindergarten. I’ve kept that email, tucked it away, so maybe you’ll hear some of his words here. I was dressed to impress in a new yellow dress and was utterly and completely terrified. I sat down at my tiny desk with some artwork to color in front of me. My parents hugged and kissed me goodbye, wished me the best. My dad hadn’t gotten far when he noticed my lunch was in the seat next to him in the car. The first day of school is scary enough without starving. He went into my classroom and approached my table. I was sitting stock still, my head down, chin tucked into my chest and I was just staring at the table. He handed me my lunch, “Del, we forgot your lunch. Here it is.” I nodded, then went back to staring at the tabletop and refusing to budge. My dad left and headed to work, but made it as far as our house, where he walked inside and cried like a baby. What had they done, he thought. He’d left his little girl in that big scary school all by herself, she’d have to ride the bus, maybe I was too little. He was heartsick and miserable the rest of the day. The rest of the story goes on to say that yes, I clearly survived my first day. I remembered this story as I took Caitlin to kindergarten this past fall and cried half the morning. My father had a similar experience taking me to my college orientation, sitting in the UT Alumni center, full and proud of me, but tears streaming down his face as he left me there overnight. No matter what I did, how I did it, my dad was proud of me, he took care of me. He hid his pain and concern so that I could flourish. My daddy was my safe place.
Every night since the night of my father’s death, I’ve told my daughter stories about him in bed. So, when I started writing this, I asked her which stories I had to tell. Without hesitation, she said ‘the go kart one!’. So here’s the go kart one….let me preface by saying that I do not condone violence. On one of our family vacations- I’m guessing maybe Estes Park- my baby brother got to experience go karting. I’m guessing he was around six, making me 10 or 11, but he was a little one. He spent an afternoon zipping around in his go kart, cheeks flushed, eyes twinkling. When we left, his excitement was palpable. I kid you not, we heard about these stupid go karts nonstop until my dad finally agreed to take him back. We walked up to the outdoor rental counter, one of those with the waist high counters and all of the keys or golf clubs lined up against the wall. There was a twenty something man working the counter and my dad asked to drive a couple of go carts. “I’m sorry, sir, but that boy cannot drive a go kart. He’s much too small.” I could feel my dad tense up….he’d softened as he aged, but his temper was one for the ages. “Well that can’t be correct”, he said, “We were here yesterday and my boy drove all afternoon.” “Absolutely not. That is against our policy and your son here is much too small”. My dad was a big man then and I’d never seen him move as fast as he did in that moment. He launched himself over that counter, pinned that young man up against the wall and said “Are you calling my son a liar?”. The guy mumbled a little “No, no sir. Not a liar sir.” “So we can drive those go carts then?” to which the employee handed over the keys and said “yes, Yes sir, enjoy sir.” My dad hopped back over, took our hands…..and you should’ve seen the joy on my brother’s face in that go kart. My daddy was our protector.
My dad struggled with diabetes for years. The first Thanksgiving that I took my then boyfriend, now husband to, my dad had just had a very serious bout with it. Diana was bustling around, acting as hostess for all of us for the most amazing meal, but my dad was laid up in bed. He wasn’t talking or eating or walking and he was miserable. We caught up, but really, it scared me to see him in such shape. As Paul and I were preparing to leave that evening, I went to hug my dad goodbye. I leaned into him, tears falling from my eyes and told him he had to pull his shit together because I needed him to walk me down the aisle. A year and two months after that, my dad held my hand outside the ballroom door, asked if I was ok. I told him I was crazy nervous, he squeezed my hand and said it was ok, he was right there. The doors opened and he let me lean on him as he walked me down that aisle. My daddy was my foundation.
I finished one of my stories to Caitlin the other night, she smiled and said “It sounds like he had a fun life.” And I think maybe he did.
I emailed him two months ago asking for his fatherly wisdom. After giving me a really long winded story- you know how he did….full of all the right words and inflection and pauses- he summed it up for me with the last advice he’ll ever give me. “Baby Girl, life’s lessons come in strange disguises. Find them.” So I think that’s where I’ll leave my long rambling stories as well. Life’s lessons come in strange disguises. Find them.
How many of you know Mary Hendricks? Mary is my 93 year old grandmother, my father’s mother, and arguably one of the most amazing women I’ve ever known. She’s strong and kind, warm and loyal. And she saved my father. What you may not know is how this came to pass. My grandparents gave birth to my aunt Vicki, but struggled through neverending nightmares in attempts to have more children of their own. They partnered with the local Catholic church in Spokane and put their name on the list to be adoptive parents. My grandma had a tender heart, one that had been broken time and time again in pursuits of finding that baby to complete their family. In an effort to protect her heart, she refused to prepare. “We are not building a nursery for a baby we don’t have”, she said. She would hope and she would pray, but she wouldn’t let herself get her hopes up. Then, on June 10, 1953, her priest called. There was a baby boy and he belonged to them. She had no bottles, no bassinet, nothing to indicate she was ready for a newborn, but her heart….her heart was. They rushed to the hospital to meet my daddy and it was love at first sight. My daddy was a healer of broken hearts.
My daddy entered his new home with a three year old sister. Bossy and sassy, she was his everything for many years and they grew up hand in hand across the United States, as they trailed their Marine father. As young adults in Virginia Beach, VA, in the 70’s, they’d spend time in the Chesapeake crabbing. They’d roll out of bed, arm themselves with a ball of string and buckets and head down to the local grocery store for packs of chicken necks. They’d tie the string around the chicken necks, wade out in the Chesapeake and wait for the crabs to tug, then flip them up into the waiting buckets. They’d spend an hour or two in the bay, talking, laughing and crabbing. They’d haul them back to the apartment, cook them up and create a spread for friends. As long as I can remember, one of my daddy’s favorite things was fresh crab dipped in melted butter. My daddy was a free spirit.
I was a shy kid. Introverted, a touch socially awkward, and very quiet. Years later, when I was worried about sending my oldest child to daycare the first time, my dad told me the story of my first day of kindergarten. I’ve kept that email, tucked it away, so maybe you’ll hear some of his words here. I was dressed to impress in a new yellow dress and was utterly and completely terrified. I sat down at my tiny desk with some artwork to color in front of me. My parents hugged and kissed me goodbye, wished me the best. My dad hadn’t gotten far when he noticed my lunch was in the seat next to him in the car. The first day of school is scary enough without starving. He went into my classroom and approached my table. I was sitting stock still, my head down, chin tucked into my chest and I was just staring at the table. He handed me my lunch, “Del, we forgot your lunch. Here it is.” I nodded, then went back to staring at the tabletop and refusing to budge. My dad left and headed to work, but made it as far as our house, where he walked inside and cried like a baby. What had they done, he thought. He’d left his little girl in that big scary school all by herself, she’d have to ride the bus, maybe I was too little. He was heartsick and miserable the rest of the day. The rest of the story goes on to say that yes, I clearly survived my first day. I remembered this story as I took Caitlin to kindergarten this past fall and cried half the morning. My father had a similar experience taking me to my college orientation, sitting in the UT Alumni center, full and proud of me, but tears streaming down his face as he left me there overnight. No matter what I did, how I did it, my dad was proud of me, he took care of me. He hid his pain and concern so that I could flourish. My daddy was my safe place.
Every night since the night of my father’s death, I’ve told my daughter stories about him in bed. So, when I started writing this, I asked her which stories I had to tell. Without hesitation, she said ‘the go kart one!’. So here’s the go kart one….let me preface by saying that I do not condone violence. On one of our family vacations- I’m guessing maybe Estes Park- my baby brother got to experience go karting. I’m guessing he was around six, making me 10 or 11, but he was a little one. He spent an afternoon zipping around in his go kart, cheeks flushed, eyes twinkling. When we left, his excitement was palpable. I kid you not, we heard about these stupid go karts nonstop until my dad finally agreed to take him back. We walked up to the outdoor rental counter, one of those with the waist high counters and all of the keys or golf clubs lined up against the wall. There was a twenty something man working the counter and my dad asked to drive a couple of go carts. “I’m sorry, sir, but that boy cannot drive a go kart. He’s much too small.” I could feel my dad tense up….he’d softened as he aged, but his temper was one for the ages. “Well that can’t be correct”, he said, “We were here yesterday and my boy drove all afternoon.” “Absolutely not. That is against our policy and your son here is much too small”. My dad was a big man then and I’d never seen him move as fast as he did in that moment. He launched himself over that counter, pinned that young man up against the wall and said “Are you calling my son a liar?”. The guy mumbled a little “No, no sir. Not a liar sir.” “So we can drive those go carts then?” to which the employee handed over the keys and said “yes, Yes sir, enjoy sir.” My dad hopped back over, took our hands…..and you should’ve seen the joy on my brother’s face in that go kart. My daddy was our protector.
My dad struggled with diabetes for years. The first Thanksgiving that I took my then boyfriend, now husband to, my dad had just had a very serious bout with it. Diana was bustling around, acting as hostess for all of us for the most amazing meal, but my dad was laid up in bed. He wasn’t talking or eating or walking and he was miserable. We caught up, but really, it scared me to see him in such shape. As Paul and I were preparing to leave that evening, I went to hug my dad goodbye. I leaned into him, tears falling from my eyes and told him he had to pull his shit together because I needed him to walk me down the aisle. A year and two months after that, my dad held my hand outside the ballroom door, asked if I was ok. I told him I was crazy nervous, he squeezed my hand and said it was ok, he was right there. The doors opened and he let me lean on him as he walked me down that aisle. My daddy was my foundation.
I finished one of my stories to Caitlin the other night, she smiled and said “It sounds like he had a fun life.” And I think maybe he did.
I emailed him two months ago asking for his fatherly wisdom. After giving me a really long winded story- you know how he did….full of all the right words and inflection and pauses- he summed it up for me with the last advice he’ll ever give me. “Baby Girl, life’s lessons come in strange disguises. Find them.” So I think that’s where I’ll leave my long rambling stories as well. Life’s lessons come in strange disguises. Find them.