What they don't tell you about grief:
A Southern Daughter grieves for her Daddy
Part 1
That’s attention getting.
Like 101 ways to make it rich without really trying. Or, what you’ve always wanted to know about cornfields (like don't drive through them especially when the radio reception is bad) but no one would tell you. Or, 2000 household uses for salt.
Seriously, I have noticed a couple of things about my “process of grieving” for my father that I’ve never read in any pamphlet or book on grief. What are the five stages? Anger. Denial. Acceptance. Two other things before acceptance that I can’t remember. Other than the legitimate two that I can't remember, there are two more stages.
One of them is insecurity.
You're asking: "What do you mean insecurity? Self-esteem? Talents and abilities? Stocks and bonds?"
No, insecurity. If I meant self-esteem I’d said “self-esteem” or metioned a stock broker if I meant the market. I know I’m full of talent and I don’t gamble.
Specifically it is this: I don’t feel secure.
Weren’t suspecting that precise discetion of meaning, were you? Just follow me.
As a little girl growing up in the South there’s this chivalric idea that men “take care” of women. And I don’t mean this in the kitten-up-the-tree sense. I mean it in the open-the-door, buy-me-a-drink, feed-a-guy-a-knuckle-sandwich-when-he-disrespects-me kinds of ways. This is a fairly natural occurrence in the South that men “look out for” women. It’s a sign of respect. It says “I respect that you are different than me and I honor your beauty and grace and your ability to give me a smart tongue lashing if I don’t act right.”
Here’s a beautiful example.
Rebecca, Sarah and I spent about three days in New Orleans painting, eating gumbo and having coffee at Café du Monde. We came back to their house in Hattiesburg one afternoon, lounged around and had some more coffee, tea before going out that evening to have dinner at a New Orleans themed restaurant. It was for more gumbo if you must know. If you had grown eating your Grandmother’s gumbo but as an adult didn't get it very often, you’d understand. We didn’t bother showering, we probably freshened up, but suffice it to say that we didn’t doll ourselves up for the meal. So, near the end of the meal the waitress says “Ladies, make sure save some room. The gentleman who was sitting at that table bought you three desserts.”
Now, some of you that are either Yankees or from a foreign country (besides England or Spain) might think this is creepy. Let me translate his actions for you: “Beautiful women. I don’t mean to disturb you but I want to honor your beauty and your grace. Let me buy all three of you dessert.” Now, as I said before, we looked rather rode-hard-and-put-up-wet. What you are probably beginning to understand (if you are from the South, you already know), is that beauty has a large meaning. In fact, all women, by sheer fact that they are women, are beautiful. As clumsy as they may actually be, Southern Gentlemen realize that women are indeed full of Grace. When he opens the door for you, that is what he is saying to you: "You are the embodiment of Grace. Allow me."
That’s what Daddys do for daughters. They tell them they are beautiful and meant to be honored. And they give them money.
My Daddy wasn’t very good at telling me that I was beautiful or honored. Oh, sometimes he was good at it, but mostly he wasn’t. Actually, mostly he was very bad at it. But I’m not here to talk about all the times he got it wrong. What I miss are the times he got it right.
Like when he told me the skirt I was wearing was very pretty.
Like the time he said “I love you,” to me first on the phone.
Like the day, after he had started getting really ill, I could hear him yelling in the background: “I want to talk to my baby!”
Like all the times he called me “Sweet.”
Now there is no one to tell me that I’m sweet or graceful or that I am loved. I’m wondering if it’s true. There is no one to call me “Sweet.” No one to say to me “Hey Baby!” when he picks up the phone to talk to me.
That leaves me feeling a great loss. Lost. Wandering. Wondering. I don’t always know who I am or that I’m honored. There is no one to honor me. I feel . . . insecure.
No one tells you about the insecurity that creeps in like a slug and settles in your brain, your heart. I wonder if you pour salt on it, will it start to melt? That’s an idea.
I’ll let you know if it works.
In the meantime, I’ll talk to my Mommy and ask her for money and see how far I get.
Oh, and, can you pass the salt?
A Southern Daughter grieves for her Daddy
Part 1
That’s attention getting.
Like 101 ways to make it rich without really trying. Or, what you’ve always wanted to know about cornfields (like don't drive through them especially when the radio reception is bad) but no one would tell you. Or, 2000 household uses for salt.
Seriously, I have noticed a couple of things about my “process of grieving” for my father that I’ve never read in any pamphlet or book on grief. What are the five stages? Anger. Denial. Acceptance. Two other things before acceptance that I can’t remember. Other than the legitimate two that I can't remember, there are two more stages.
One of them is insecurity.
You're asking: "What do you mean insecurity? Self-esteem? Talents and abilities? Stocks and bonds?"
No, insecurity. If I meant self-esteem I’d said “self-esteem” or metioned a stock broker if I meant the market. I know I’m full of talent and I don’t gamble.
Specifically it is this: I don’t feel secure.
Weren’t suspecting that precise discetion of meaning, were you? Just follow me.
As a little girl growing up in the South there’s this chivalric idea that men “take care” of women. And I don’t mean this in the kitten-up-the-tree sense. I mean it in the open-the-door, buy-me-a-drink, feed-a-guy-a-knuckle-sandwich-when-he-disrespects-me kinds of ways. This is a fairly natural occurrence in the South that men “look out for” women. It’s a sign of respect. It says “I respect that you are different than me and I honor your beauty and grace and your ability to give me a smart tongue lashing if I don’t act right.”
Here’s a beautiful example.
Rebecca, Sarah and I spent about three days in New Orleans painting, eating gumbo and having coffee at Café du Monde. We came back to their house in Hattiesburg one afternoon, lounged around and had some more coffee, tea before going out that evening to have dinner at a New Orleans themed restaurant. It was for more gumbo if you must know. If you had grown eating your Grandmother’s gumbo but as an adult didn't get it very often, you’d understand. We didn’t bother showering, we probably freshened up, but suffice it to say that we didn’t doll ourselves up for the meal. So, near the end of the meal the waitress says “Ladies, make sure save some room. The gentleman who was sitting at that table bought you three desserts.”
Now, some of you that are either Yankees or from a foreign country (besides England or Spain) might think this is creepy. Let me translate his actions for you: “Beautiful women. I don’t mean to disturb you but I want to honor your beauty and your grace. Let me buy all three of you dessert.” Now, as I said before, we looked rather rode-hard-and-put-up-wet. What you are probably beginning to understand (if you are from the South, you already know), is that beauty has a large meaning. In fact, all women, by sheer fact that they are women, are beautiful. As clumsy as they may actually be, Southern Gentlemen realize that women are indeed full of Grace. When he opens the door for you, that is what he is saying to you: "You are the embodiment of Grace. Allow me."
That’s what Daddys do for daughters. They tell them they are beautiful and meant to be honored. And they give them money.
My Daddy wasn’t very good at telling me that I was beautiful or honored. Oh, sometimes he was good at it, but mostly he wasn’t. Actually, mostly he was very bad at it. But I’m not here to talk about all the times he got it wrong. What I miss are the times he got it right.
Like when he told me the skirt I was wearing was very pretty.
Like the time he said “I love you,” to me first on the phone.
Like the day, after he had started getting really ill, I could hear him yelling in the background: “I want to talk to my baby!”
Like all the times he called me “Sweet.”
Now there is no one to tell me that I’m sweet or graceful or that I am loved. I’m wondering if it’s true. There is no one to call me “Sweet.” No one to say to me “Hey Baby!” when he picks up the phone to talk to me.
That leaves me feeling a great loss. Lost. Wandering. Wondering. I don’t always know who I am or that I’m honored. There is no one to honor me. I feel . . . insecure.
No one tells you about the insecurity that creeps in like a slug and settles in your brain, your heart. I wonder if you pour salt on it, will it start to melt? That’s an idea.
I’ll let you know if it works.
In the meantime, I’ll talk to my Mommy and ask her for money and see how far I get.
Oh, and, can you pass the salt?
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