As I got a little older
and tried to gain my independence, I wanted to move away from those "childish"
signs of his love. But he wasn't going to give up. In high school and no
longer able to go home for lunch, I began taking my own. Dad would get
up a little early and make it for me.
I never knew what to expect.
The outside of the sack might be covered with his rendering of a mountain
scene (it became his trademark) or a heart inscribed with "Dad-n-Angie
K.K." in its center. Inside there would be a napkin with that same heart
or an "I love you." Many times he would write a joke or a riddle, such
as "Why don't they ever call it a momsicle instead of a popsicle?" He always
had some silly saying to make me smile and let me know that he loved me.
I used to hide my lunch so no
one would see the bag or read the napkin, but that didn't last long. One
of my friends saw the napkin one day, grabbed it, and passed it around
the lunch room. My face burned with embarrassment. To my astonishment,
the next day all my friends were waiting to see the napkin. From the way
they acted, I think they all wished they had someone who showed them that
kind of love. I was so proud to have him as my father. Throughout the rest
of my high school years, I received those napkins, and still have a majority
of them.
And still it didn't end. When
I left home for college (the last one to leave), I thought the messages
would stop. But my friends and I were glad that his gestures continued.
I missed seeing my dad
every day after school and so I called him a lot. My phone bills got to
be pretty high. It didn't matter what we said; I just wanted to hear his
voice. We started a ritual during that first year that stayed with us.
After I said good-bye he always said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?" I'd reply.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
I began getting letters
almost every Friday. The front-desk staff alway knew who the letter were
from - the return address said "The Hunk." Many times the envelopes were
addressed in crayon, and along with the enclosed letters were usually drawings
of our cat and dog, stick figures of him and Mom, and if I had been home
the weekend before, of me racing around town with friends and using
the house as a pit stop. He also had his mountain scene and the heart-encased
inscription, Dad-n-Angie K.K.
The mail was delivered
every day right before lunch, so I'd have his letters with me when I went
to the cafeteria. I realized it was useless to hide them because my roommate
was a high school friend who knew about his napkins. Soon it became a Friday
afternoon ritual. I would read the letters, and the drawing and envelope
would be passed around.
It was during this time that
Dad became stricken with cancer. When the
letters didn't come on Friday, I knew that
he had been sick and wasn't able to write. He used to get up at 4:00a.m.
so he could sit in the quiet house and do his letters. If he missed his
Friday delivery, the letters would usually come a day or two later. But
they always came. My friends used to call him "Coolest Dad in the Universe."
And one day they sent him a card bestowing that title, signed by all of
them. I believe he taught all of us about a father's love. I wouldn't be
surprised if my friends started sending napkins to their children. He left
an impression that would stay with them and inspire them to give their
own children their expression of their love.
Throughout my four years of college,
the letters and phone calls came at
regular intervals. But then the time
came when I decided to come home and be with him because he was growing
sicker, and I knew that our time together was limited. Those were the hardest
days to go through. To watch this man, who always acted so young, age past
his years. In the end he didn't recognize who I was and would call me the
name of a relative he hadn't seen in many years.
Even though I knew it was due to his illness, it still hurt that he couldn't
remember my name.
I was alone with him in
his hospital room a couple of days before he died. We held hands and watched
TV. As I was getting ready to leave, he said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
Written by Angie K. Ward-Kucer
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