The familiar aroma of coffee and the sound of a stirring spoon hitting a ceramic coffee cup, along with my dad's whispering voice to my mom in the next room, were the last things I was aware of as I drifted into my sleep that night, as they were almost every night. I still remember vividly that I was awakened abruptly by my dad's serious voice. "Wake up to see your Mother." Then he carried me to my mom's bedroom. I could tell it wasn't morning yet because it was pitch black outside and lights in the house were on. Dad did not say anything while carrying me. When we entered my mom's room, my two older brothers were standing next to my mom's bed and they were looking down to the floor. There were also several other relatives in the room. They all looked toward my dad and me. My mom was resting still with a bed sheet pull up to her arms. She seemed to be asleep. My dad brought me closer to my mom, put me down, and said "Look at your mother for the last time. Tomorrow you won't be able to see her again." Dad's voice sounded so strange. I looked at him, then stared at my mom for a long while. My brothers were crying and wiping their eyes. I felt hot stream of liquid on my face. Dad picked me up and whispered to me, "Mom is joining your ancestors, but her spirit will always with us." My brothers carried me back to my room and put me back to bed.

Next day, my dad told me that he wanted me to stand next to my brothers in our living room to greet all of the guests who came to pay my mother their last respects. Dad's instruction was that we must bow our head and say thank you to every guest. He also reminded us that he expected our best behavior. I don't remember seeing any look of disapproval on Dad's face during that period. Dad was always standing next to us to greet and thank every guest. The wake lasted 3 full days before my mom's funeral.

My dad became a widower at age 45 and a single father of three children, ages 13, 9, and almost 3. I am the youngest child. Dad was an architect and owned a construction company. He was very talented, with an artistic flair for designing and building custom homes. He built our beautiful home. He always regretted that Mom didn't have more time to enjoy her new house. Dad said Mom became very ill right after the house was built.

Dad determined to raise his three children by himself. Many relatives and neighbors were skeptical of how serious Dad was when he announced that he would never remarry. To Dad, there was no other woman who ever could take Mom's place in his heart and his house. Dad made that announcement when several relatives suggested that he should send his daughter to live with one of her aunts. He resented their suggestion for a long time and was determined to prove that he was capable of raising his own children. Frequently, when I was around five years old, people would wait for my dad to go out of the room, and then said to me and my brothers, "Soon you will have a new mother," in a tone meant to suggest that a wicked stepmother would entice my Dad to abandon his children. Of course, they just would not dare speak like that in front of my dad. I always told Dad about it afterward, and Dad always said, "They are wrong!"

Dad talked about Mom every day. He always made sure that there was an setting for Mom at every meal. I learned to how to set the table for various types of meals from Dad at a very young age. I always remembered to set a place for Mom at every meal, as I knew that it would please him. I always tried my best to meet Dad's approval.

Dad displayed many photos of my mom and their wedding photos in every room of the house. I remember those photos were in large 16 x 20 frames. They were artistically displayed in prominent places so that visitors could not fail to notice. Dad said that he wanted to feel Mom's presence, and he wanted us, the children, to remember their mother.

Even after many years, every now and then, someone still teased dad about getting a lady friend. He often wittily replied as he pointed to my Mom's photo, "When she would give me her permission." It was not until I reached my teens, and had apparently become a well-behaved daughter and a good student who reflected well on my father, that people stopped bothering Dad and telling him he wasn't capable of raising a daughter alone. I guess they finally started to take him seriously.

My dad hired help to keep the house and the yard during the weekdays. On the weekends, he often cooked and did the yard work himself. My dad was a good cook, and he loved to learn how to make new dishes for us. He would let me help him by doing such things as peeling carrots, garlic, onions, and potatoes. If the new dish turned out good, he laughed heartily and often said, "Your mom would enjoy this too." If he was not pleased with the results, he would try to learn the secrets from many established chefs and keep trying. Dad taught his children to enjoy and appreciate fine food. He taught us good table manners and expected us to remember them at all time. I must have been very clumsy and forgetful a lot of time, because it seemed that Dad corrected me quite frequently. 

Every time we cooked together, and on many other occasions, Dad always talked to us about many things, such as Mom's favorite foods, Mom's family, his business, world affairs, politics, people with whom he dealt in business and government, friends of the family, and our family traditions. Even when I was very small, he never talked down to me but always discussed these things with me as though I were mature enough to comprehend everything he said. He would often ask me questions to make me think, and he would ask my opinions on many subjects.

Until I started my first year in grade school, Dad took me with him as many places as he could. I got to go to his construction sites with him frequently. He always told me to stay next to him at all time. I got a lot of small wood blocks to play with. If some workmen called him from the distance, he put me on his desk and told me to sit there until he came back. Watching Dad at work was amazingly fascinating to me. He would give strings of orders in a rapid voice in one minute, then turn around to help mix cement or move some big wood blocks, always keeping his eyes on me closely. I tested him with several attempts to wander around while he was occupied, but I was never successful on those occasions, because he always called me back with a disapproving tone of voice.

Learning was very important to Dad. Every night, my brothers and I were required to study at least a couple of hours.  No radio or television was allowed on the school nights. My dad was fluent in French and tried to give me French lessons about three times a week, whenever his time allowed. While he worked on his drawings and blueprints, I would read my French lessons aloud to him. During my grade school years, Dad always met with my principal and my teachers at the beginning of the term and reminded them that homework was highly welcome and expected in our household. He would tell them, in  my presence, that they were to let  him know if I ever misbehaved. I always got good grade to please Dad.

Even though Dad worked very hard and spent many long hours running his business, frequently working late into the night in his study, he still managed to give his children, and particularly his daughter, a great deal of attention, and he succeeded in building many wonderful memories for us.

Through the years, one of my earliest childhood memories was reinforced almost nightly, as I would go to sleep to the lingering and familiar aroma of coffee and the sound of a stirring spoon hitting a ceramic coffee cup. After Dad put us to bed, he would work into the wee hours. Sometime I woke up in the middle of the night and walked in his study to ask for a glass of water. There he was, still drawing on several blueprints. After giving me water, sometimes Dad picked me up and showed me some of the blueprints that he was working on. I don't remember whose houses those blueprints were for. I just enjoyed listening to my dad talking to me.

Copyright © 2008 by JoAnne Green. All Rights Reserved.
Do Not Copy.

More about my dad later, when I post the next installment of I Am My Father's Daughter.