Four Little Girl Memories of Dad

It's Father's Day this weekend. Time to reveal fond memories of Dad.

One:

Telling of "The Pig Jumped Over the Sty" story

I'd long for lazy Sunday afternoons when Dad would tell me this drawn out story. Sometimes I'd cuddle with him in his black recliner in the corner of the living room, but most times I'd sit on a nearby chair because he'd get sleepy and barely get the story told. I didn't want to be trapped there in the midst of his nap or wake him up trying to get away. Maybe in a couple weeks when our family gathers to honor his 90th birthday a few months back, Dad will tell this story to his twenty-one great grandchildren, and I'll get to hear it all over again.

Two:
Counting the church offering

This was our Sunday-after-church ritual upstairs in his office while Mom put lunch on the table. Dad's thick fingers thumbed through the bills. He'd pause to face the bills in the same direction. Maybe that's why my wallet has to be organized. Coins got sorted into a white organizer. Sometimes he'd let me do that. If there were enough, he'd blow air into colored cylinders and wrap 'em all up. All the money was placed into the yellow pouch and put in the safe. This memory is so dear to me that I've written numerous creative essays about it.

Three
Making me eat the crust of my toast 

Mom didn't make me eat it, and one time Dad noticed. He told me I was eating it. Can you imagine? I hated that part. Now I had to eat it all by itself without the tasty jam? He spied on me then for the next few breakfasts. Told me to eat the crust first and get it over with. So, that's what I've done with my toast ever since—and I even like the crust now.

Four:
Playing my stupid "Be a Monster" game

This was a game I made Dad play when I was way too old to be playing a game like this (and I even make him do it now—because it just cracks me up). There are two ways to play it. One: put a bag over your head and slowly walk stiff-armed into the room, growl, and head toward the person you're scaring. Second way: no bag needed but smile sincerely and nicely and then just slowly develop a creepy looking face, show the gums of your teeth, and make your hands look like you're going to claw the person. We played variations of this simple game last Christmas with Kassie and Cameron, two of my great nieces. We had to stop when they got truly scared, but then they begged for more. These two stupid monster games, especially when Dad is in the mood to play them with me, give me a good bellyache laugh every time. 

What are the little things your dad did when you were young? Any activities you still share? If your dad isn't here anymore, what fond moment appears in your mind the minute you read this question? Give us some details, please. I can't be the only one out there with some sweet, embarrassing memories.

Writer's Note: To read last year's Father's Day post, click here for "Dollars and Sense: A Lesson in Interest of a Different Kind." For more about my dad, read the three posts I wrote early this year after he turned 90. I wrote in segments of three decades. Click here for "First 30 Years of My Dad's 90-year-old Life." Click here for "The Middle Years of a 90-year-old's Life" and here for "Old Age Creeps in at 70-80-90 Years of Age."

Dollars and Sense: A Lesson in Interest of a Different Kind

I bought my first PC, an AT&T computer, when fellow teacher, Ken Pitts, arranged a special deal for staff members in the district. This was back in the day with the good old C-prompt and MS DOS.

So how did I, a still-young, broke teacher who lived in a one-bedroom apartment with no cable TV, a car loan, and a small college loan payment afford it? By doing the second stupidest thing I've ever done in my life.

Now a-days, credit card offers arrive by mail tempting young adults, but this incident happened in the '90's when flyers were mailed announcing special loan deals with low monthly payments on x-number of dollars. My name was printed on it like a certificate. The loan amount, that I would automatically qualify for, stood out in bold. It looked like I had won something.

And I fell for it. I took out a loan to buy this $1200 computer. Did I go to my local Citizen’s State Bank in Cheney where I had my account? No. I went to the establishment that sent me that certificate—some bank in Wichita.

I took the flyer along, showed a couple paycheck stubs for verification, filled out the vital information, and ta-da! I had the cash to buy that PC: a keyboard, a tower with a 3X3 disk slot, a black and white monitor, and a mouse with three clicker buttons--no scroll button, mind you, and certainly not shaped to fit the palm of your hand let alone cordless.

My computer arrived, I put it to good use, and faithfully made my payments. When school was out for the year, I returned to South Dakota for a few months, and my parents knew I had bought a computer, for it made the trip with me.

At home sitting at the kitchen table paying bills, Dad noticed my coupon booklet. Remember those? We'd get the entire booklet and were expected to remember to send in the payment with the coupon. No bill came in the mail to remind us since the due dates were printed on each sheet.

So I am busy writing checks and paying my bills until Dad expressed surprise at my low, $35-a-month payment for this loan.

He asked what the interest rate was. I said, "I have no idea.”

He took a look at the paper work. Silence. Then came the discussion.

Did I even know what an interest rate was? And did I even ask the bank what the interest rate was for this loan amount? What was the length of the loan? Could I pay it off early without penalty?

After a scolding for my ignorance, Dad called the bank to discuss their marketing tactics used on young, naive women who do not have enough experience to even ask the right questions. Man, was he frustrated with me—and that bank.

After we found out the pay-off amount, Dad took the booklet, paid off the loan, and made me pay him the money instead of the bank.

The interest rate that the bank charged me, you ask? Thirty-one percent.

The interest rate Dad charged me? Zero.

The same interest rate I charged him when a few years later, he borrowed my three summer paychecks to help pay the aerial spraying on the farm.

Dad’s interest in me, of course, goes well beyond dollars and common sense to spiritual and Biblical concepts, but on this Father’s Day 2014, this is the story I’ve chosen to share publicly—one demonstrating a young girl’s I-wanna-be-out-on-my-own-ignorance and a father's forever-protective, guiding hand.