“World’s Best Dad” mug? Hardly. A card with a corny fishing or golf joke? Don’t even.
So how do I honor on Father’s Day a long-gone World War II flyboy and serial rule-breaker with more flaws than heroics?
With a painting over my fireplace and an American flag outside my door.
The 1956 painting is a portrait of 4-year-old me, on one of the most miserable days of my life. A greatly anticipated trip to see “The Nutcracker” was thwarted by a feverish case of chickenpox. As my mother, sisters and grandmother took off, I cried at the front door, begging to join them.
My dad, a commercial art director and artist, didn’t coddle me or pretend there was any silver lining. Instead, he painted my picture.
Thankfully he omitted my red spots and retained my scowl. He didn’t gloss over my feelings but added a jaunty newspaper hat and a stick-figure drawing on the wall. The work perfectly captures that moment in time, both his and mine. He validated my loss, not with a hug, but with a tangible gift.
His rule-breaking nature both thrilled and terrified me. On hot, muggy Chicago nights he would take us to Lake Michigan, jumping the rickety fencing that shouted “Beach Closed!” so we could splash in the cool waves.
When he was told by my sister’s teacher at the one and only parent-teacher conference he attended that she was not adjusting to the group, my father’s response was, “The hell with the group — let the group adjust to her!”
Taking my great-aunt and me to Union Station to board a train, he was stopped by a guard and told he could not board with us. “Oh yeah?” he said, stomping out his cigarette, “Watch this!” And then he proceeded to march us to our seats. Mission accomplished. Despite posted warnings, he photographed us in front of paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago, where he had studied. And much more.
That bullheadedness saved a fellow pilot during the war. In the Pacific arena, pilots assumed certain death if they were shot down over the sea. Their biggest fear was running out of fuel. No delays ever. Returning from a bombing mission, he spotted a pilot on top of a downed plane. At the risk of alerting the enemy, he radioed the code words for a sea rescue. Circling until he spotted a U.S. ship on the horizon with his fuel gauge below empty, he flew toward base with two choices: have his crew eject or try to land. Hellbent, he landed the B-25. The downed pilot survived with a broken leg.
He didn’t exactly break laws, but he also was not the father I longed for — a combination of the calm, wise and loving dads in “Father Knows Best,” “My Three Sons,” “The Andy Griffith Show” and other cardigan-clad icons.
He died when I was 22. Once more, there was no silver lining to soften the blow. But each time I have found the courage to speak up at town hall meetings, stand up to bullies and stubbornly hold my own, I know his spirit is with me. And no Father’s Day card can capture that.
Joan Jackson is a Dallas writer.
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