Today is the anniversary of my father's death, 22 years ago.This is a paper I wrote about him.
I think the person who has impacted me the most is the one who was missing my whole life, the one who I knew loved me, but whom I was never able to love. The person who wanted me so badly and was never able to have me, the one who I such a mystery to me, but who I know better than many other people I know. The person who helps to explain a great deal about who I am: my daddy.
Charles Donald Decker Jr. grew up in Wappinger’s Falls, New York. He lived a normal childhood with his baby sister, Lisa, and his parents, Patricia and Donald. I love to talk to my Aunt Lisa about him because she tells such great stories, stories about how much trouble they were constantly in. Like one time when Charles and Lisa took turns jumping off their couch onto their coffee table. Was it such a big surprise when the coffee table broke on Charles’ last jump? Probably not to them, but definitely a surprise for their parents! Charles didn’t really like the consequences of jumping on the table -- a spanking! Hoping to avoid the pain, he slipped a book into the seat of his pants. Nice touch I think, but his father did not appreciate it.
How about the time when he and sister were wresting, and they shattered a whole window? I still don’t know the particulars of that one, but it seems that m aunt was to blame for I the most.
My grandmother has interesting stories to tell, also, like when he rolled his peas under the radiator, so he wouldn’t have to eat them, or later on in his teen years when he would take his sister out to for dinner when his mom cooked something they didn’t like.
I hear a lot of stories about my father. Some of them tell of his playfulness or mischievousness, some tell of his physical attributes. He was a very handsome man, and people tell me I look like him. He was tall and thin with dark hair and clear brown eyes. I like to look at his pictures because I see his smile, and it is almost exactly like mine.
My stepfather, Rail, did not like for me to talk about my daddy. Rail refused to even try to be my father, and yet he denied me the knowledge of m real one. Through bits and pieces of conversations I had with people, I tried to piece together an image of my father: what he was like and how he affected the people around him. I got the general impression that he was sweet and kind and gentle. The hardest thing about living with my stepfather was that I knew Rail did not love me, but there was no question that my real daddy had. Family members and friends of his would say:
“Sara, he wanted a baby girl so bad. You were all he wanted! He was so excited! Don’t ever doubt that he didn’t love you or that he doesn’t still. He can see you, even if you can’t see him.”
He loved my mother, too. It was the one thing that always bothered me, not knowing whether they had really been in love. I saw how things were between Rail and my mother. I saw the hate and anger on a daily basis. I had to know whether my daddy had loved my mom. One day I was cleaning out my closet, and I found a box full of their old love letters. I sat down and read them, and I still have not seen evidence of any couple being more in love than they were. The tone, the writing, the poetry, the expression all pointed to a couple madly in love.
I wonder quite a bit about what it would be like if my daddy were around today. I like to think he would wrap his arms around me and say:
“Sara, I am so proud of you. You are everything I hoped you would be.”
My daddy died seven days before I was born. My mom buried his body in the cold, dark ground on a wet, raining Friday. Four days after the funeral, I was born. Fortunately, even though a person’s body is buried, their spirit isn’t. Sometimes I lie awake at night and cry because there is so much about me I don’t understand. There is a void in my life that can’t really be filled. But it is at times like these that I feel a presence, a presence that isn’t god, but is still holy. Every person needs love, and it is hard to live without it. When I just needed a reminder that I was loved, I felt this peace, and I am sure that God let my daddy come down from heaven to remind me.
How has this person impacted me? He has in a lot of ways. First, I see how short life is. He was 22 when he died, which is too young for any person. I want my life to be meaningful, yet fun and enjoyable so that whenever I do die, I will have done what I wanted to.
Second, love and respect are not things to be toyed with. It wasn’t until very recently that I saw respect for who I was in a man’s eyes. I have never seen that before. My daddy was respected by all he knew because he was a good man. I need to be a good woman. I need to stand up for what I believe in, overcome all obstacles, work towards what I want or need without giving up, and be the best friend a person could have. I want to make him proud.
My daddy had fun with his life; he enjoyed it, and that is why I am here in school: to do what I want to do, to become what I know I can become, to follow my heart and my dreams like I know he would have wanted me to. I may not have met my father, but his absence has caused me to think more, to go out and try to find the unknown, to not be afraid to take chances because you may not get a second chance. He has inspired me to live.
May the frets be with you.
