NEWSLETTERS

JUNE 2002
©2002 Terri Hendrix

The idea of creating a day to honor fathers began in Spokane, Washington, with a woman named Sonara Dodd, who got the idea while listening to a Mother's Day sermon in 1909. Sonara wanted a special day to honor her father, William Smart, a Civil War veteran whose wife had died while giving birth to their sixth child. William was left to raise the newborn and his other five children by himself on a rural farm in eastern Washington state. As Sonara grew, she realized how her dad had made all sorts of parental sacrifices and was, in her eyes, a courageous, selfless and loving man. Her father was born in June, so in 1910, on June 19, Sonara chose to hold a Father's Day celebration in Spokane. Though Calvin Coolidge, as President, pledged his support for a day honoring fathers in 1924, it wasn't until 1966 that Lyndon Johnson signed a presidential proclamation declaring the third Sunday in June as Father's Day.
* * *

"The Ring": This song is about the ring my father made for my mother out of a 1955 half-dollar coin. He began crafting the ring on a ship returning from the Vietnam War. Every time tempers would flare in our household, rather than raise his voice, my Dad would usually go outside and work on this ring. From inside our house, we'd hear 'ding' 'ding' 'ding,' and we'd know somethin' was up. It wasn't until years later when he gave the ring to my mom that we figured out what he'd been doing all those years with his temper.

"The Ring"
When we were kids
We'd lay awake at night
And listen to my mom and dad talk about money
When times were tight
My mom would raise her voice
My dad wouldn't say a thing
He'd walk outside
Turn on his workshop light
And he'd work on a ring
My dad earned the Soldier's Medal
And the Purple Heart in Vietnam
He learned how to make jewelry
To ease his mind on the ship back home
The war left him changed
He never said a thing
Every time he thought about it
He'd work on the ring

We watched him through the window
As he worked one afternoon
He held the silver half dollar in his hand
As he tapped the edges with a spoon
When I asked my dad if he was mad
He never said a thing
It seemed to ease his troubled mind
As he worked on the ring

Every holiday
We gather round the table
As my dad prays
And when we close our eyes
Sometimes I think my dad cries
And those words left unspoken
I've come to understand
What's kept our family together
Is worn on my mother's hand
For my mother
He made a ring
For my mother
He'd do most anything
A quiet man
With words unspoken
Proved his love could not be broken
Out of a half dollar
My father
Made my mom a ring
Out of a half dollar
My father
Made my mom a ring

As a complement to last month's newsletter celebrating Mother's Day, this newsletter goes out in honor of fathers everywhere! Happy Father's Day!

James Hendrix (Yes, folks call him Jim. And yes, I guess that makes me related to Jimi)--
I can see my Dad...watching the Dallas Cowboys. I can see me...watching the game with him and sitting on his lap until I was too big and fell off. I can see us together, sitting on the swing, in the backyard, watching the frogs and butterflies.

My Dad's quiet but with a sneaky, dry sense of humor. The king of the limerick. The neighborhood mechanic. He smells like Old Spice. He's the disciplinarian. Us kids would have to suffer until he got home from work for our punishment when we fought like wild monkeys.

My Dad likes peanut butter and banana sandwiches with mayonnaise. Orange "Circus Peanuts" candy. Eating ice cream (HAS to be Bluebell Homemade Vanilla) out of the carton with a spoon and doing so in a circular motion until he creates an ice cream ball...in the carton. Sharing the ice cream spoon.

One summer, dad drove mom and us kids from San Antonio to Birmingham, Alabama. We stayed with Grandma and Grandpa Hendrix for a few weeks. Us kids ate all their Little Debbie Cakes, questioned the actions of a flea-ridden, sex- crazed little poodle (Don't Pet the Dog), fought like wild monkeys as we swung from their porch, discovered the band "Heart," added to the poodle puddles on the carpet with our ice cream stains, watched my Grandma (with little formal education) do mind-boggling crossword puzzles and glow with pride every time she looked up at our Dad (usually when he wasn't looking), and got to know all Dad's kin as well as a gun-toatin', tall-n-skinny Grandpa named Noah who, unbeknownst to my Dad, introduced me to what would later become an addiction: my first flea market (the kind not having to do with the parasite or the poodle). Dad still claimed us as his own throughout the Alabama adventure.

Dad showed "Skip To My Lou" to me, and those were the the first chords I ever learned on guitar.
Being raised in a military family, I learned your clothes can never have too much starch. (I didn't know my knees bent until fourth grade). He's the first man I've ever seen get a sunburn in the shade. He's SENSITIVE and you'll usually never know you've hurt his feelings. As a deterrent, he had us kids "try" smoking. I gagged and almost passed out. I've never been a smoker.

In-grown toenail surgeon. I won't elaborate. It's gross. Why us kids' toenails were the subject of such parental supervision is still beyond me (maybe because for a while in fourth grade I bit mine?). Butterfly surgeon (a little less gross), meaning to use whatever one has in one's emergency medical kit to duct tape, pin, wrap, or glue body parts and skin back together. Anytime we got hurt we were butterflied by Dad. Once as tots, my sister had enough of my attitude so she gave me a shove in the bathroom and my butt went slicing through the shower glass stall. I'll never forget my mom: "Jim, she needs stitches" as I was being "butt-er-flied" back together. Now that I'm older, I sure wish the butterfly worked on broken hearts.

When we fell down water skiing and Dad was behind the wheel of the boat, for safety's sake he'd circle the lake to fetch us. Of course...I started skiing around the time of "Jaws." Oh, and after one adventure on the lake, we came home and Dad metamorphosed into the King of the Syphon. He began to teach us his mastered technique. Us kids were "taught" how to syphon the excess "liquids" out of the bottom of the boat. "Taught" means growing wise to the method; I'd hide at the mere mention of it. "Liquids" means anything from lake water to gasoline, purified Spam, water-logged cheese, chips, sandwich bits, and dollops of suntan lotion. Talk about a mouthful!

Sundays were for football and church. Dad would often have "indigestion" during church. We'd get the giggles. Dad would get the giggles. Mom would get embarrassed. He'd also gather us up and we'd leave church if service lingered too long. Because nothing interfered with....the Dallas Cowboys. My Dad would be asleep in his recliner by halftime. I can see me, on Sunday afternoons, asleep with him until I outgrew his lap and fell off.

The men in my life are all similar in one aspect or another. They're sensitive in ways I'm not and in ways I'd never think they would be. They're genuine, honest, loyal and 100% world-class men.

I've always performed music, breathed music, lived music and worried least of all about what gender I am. My Dad didn't raise a color or a gender. He raised a person. And for this I'm thankful. Don't get me wrong: he's old school. At Luby's recently, he raised his empty tea glass and shook his ice cubes at the waitress while pleading "HONEY, more tea." Still, I feel my Dad "sees" people and estimates their worth by their actions. The men in my life have mastered the technique of the butterfly. Put them in a recliner and it's cocoon time. But you never know when they'll show their real colors and prove that all your preconceived notions of who they are just might be different. It took my Dad years to make that ring for my mom. Instead of saying things he'd later regret, he chose to walk away and keep love lit during the dimmest of times.

When my Dad retired from the military, he did so a top-ranking Command Sergeant Major, decorated soldier, a war hero, and a walking talking piece of shrapnel. Because of his times in combat, the left side of his face has zero feeling. All my life we've had to at one time or another wipe his face (especially when he ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches with mayonnaise). Although we can see this damage, instead of telling us his war stories, he's seldom shared his experiences of Korea and Vietnam. Now that I'm older, I wish I could butterfly his memories, as I know there are openings where the past crawls in. He's a brave soul. So's my Mom.

I don't know what it takes to keep a family together in today's times. I do know my parents had "it," lost "it," and found "it" again. They seem to repeat the process over the years as they re-learn one another. It goes beyond race, gender, and money. It started with the making of the ring and continues in their hearts. They "need" to stay together. Each completes the other. And should I visit them and ever hear 'ding' 'ding' 'ding' coming from the garage again..... I'll smile.

Warm regards,
Terri

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