I’ve done my share of holiday-themed stories as a feature writer – mothers’ special memories of Mother’s Day, where are the best fireworks for July 4, Easter egg hunts, non-romantic Valentine’s Day gifts and what to get dad besides a tie.
On my Thursday morning walk, I started thinking about story ideas as I often do.
My brain: Father’s Day is Sunday. You should write something on that.
It was almost like my brain was a foreigner. The idea seemed to come from outside me. Why would I do a story on Father’s Day?
The thing I’ve learned about my grief process is that over time, grief lurks in dark corners waiting for a chance to rush out and sucker punch me in the gut when I least expect it; then it gleefully runs back into hiding.
The mere thought of Father’s Day caused the tears to start forming and falling relentlessly.
My dad died Dec. 2, 2020.
Last year, we went through all the numbing firsts. Those I tried to be ready for as each of them came. I thought they would be harder, but I’d braced myself for them. Maybe I was prepared for the emotional onslaught. Father’s Day wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
My granddaughter, Addi, was even born a few weeks early on Father’s Day, softening the blow.
I remember texting a friend who said it wasn’t the firsts that were hard for her when her mother died, it was the seconds — the second birthday, the second anniversary, the second Mother’s Day.
I spent the rest of my walk fighting the tears and losing.
My dad — Leonard P. Zimmerman Sr. Let me tell you about him.
He was born in Galveston, Texas, only a few months before the U.S. joined World War II. My grandmother was born to a group of circus performers. Yeah, I wrote a book on that. My grandfather worked at casinos most of his life. Probably another book, but many of the stories are lost.
Galveston had a thriving casino business, albeit illegal, in first half of the 20th century. It was the original “Sin City,” according to some reports. I’ve heard stories about the Pleasure Pier and a Texas Rangers’ raid that ended with illegal slot machines being dumped in the bay, ending my dad’s family’s time there.
After that raid, he, along with his parents and three siblings, moved to Las Vegas, which was controlled by the mafia in the 1950s when they arrived.
My dad told us stories about working in a casino and my grandfather telling him to never look certain people in the eyes. You avoided them; they were bad news. He went to high school with the daughter of the owners of Binion’s Horseshoe.
One story he loved to tell was about Sammy Davis Jr. who strolled into the casino and walked up to a table where my dad was playing blackjack. Davis motioned for the dealer to move out of the way and took his spot. He dealt the hand but peeked at the cards and told the players whether or not they should take a hit or stay. His fun lasted a couple of hands before he went his way.
Daddy left Vegas for college and then the Army brought him to Fort Gordon where he met my mom at the Garden City Bowling Lanes. Their first date was at Luigi’s. They got married a couple of months later. They ate at Luigi’s on their wedding night and on just about every wedding anniversary for 56 years.
My parents worked hard to give my brother and me a good life.
Christmas was my dad’s favorite time of year. Growing up, it was all about the lights, the tree, the gifts but after Christmas church service. No presents until we’d gone to church. Maybe it was appropriate that he left us at his favorite time of the year.
In September 2020, I helped a little as my daughter and brother put the tree up for him. He would take his nap in the room with it and remark about how pretty the lights were. My mother hasn’t taken the tree down yet.
As an adult, I realized that my dad wished he’d provided better, been able to give us more. We were so rich. He just didn’t know it. He gave us so much more than material things.
My dad was always there for me – always. And no one in the world was prouder of me and my brother, except my mom, of course.
In high school, I played softball — badly. I hit one “homerun” in my four years, and that was only because of the generosity of the scorekeeper. It was one of the few times my bat made contact with the ball, and it dribbled out past the infielder. Once in the outfield, it was like the Keystone Cops as a series of missed throws ensured a super slow runner made it all the way home. But they were proud of me.
Even on road trips to places like Lincoln County or Morgan County, my parents were there — part of the parental triumvirate that included my parents, Lisa Maddox’s parents and Laura Garren’s parents.
When my kids came along, my parents were at every ballet performance, school function, graduation, honors day. And believe me, there were a ton of them. My dad often played back-up taxi driver whenever I had to be in three places at one time.
He was funny and never passed up a good dad joke; however, “good” is a loose term. The cornier they were, the more he liked them.
Most importantly, he instilled in me a steadfast faith that, although it’s been shaken some of the years, it has never failed me.
There were a few things my dad repeatedly said to me over the years, mantras for better living.
One was “everything is temporary and subject to change,” and another was “have faith in God.”
Those two things have seen me through my darkest times.
Any time I had a difficult situation, he’d always tell me it would work out, and I believed him. And he was right.
I could write more about my dad, but I’ll stop here. I can’t see very well through the tears.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I know you said everything is temporary and subject to change, but this pain just doesn’t go away. It doesn’t feel temporary. I miss you.
Charmain Z. Brackett is the managing editor of The Augusta Press. Reach her at charmain@theaugustapress.com
