5/23/2000
I've told you about my mom (the "When I
Remember Mom ..." article in this "Puzzles" section),
so now let me tell you about my dad, Harold "Mark" Cox. Here's
something I wrote for him a month after God "got ahold of me":
When
I remember Daddy . . . I feel his back belt loop in my index
finger as I pretend to be his tail. I see what must have been a
very in-shape stomach that I used as a trampoline as a preschooler,
having a great time doing seat drops! I feel him holding me up
high to get my first look at
my newborn sister, Julie, through Mommy's hospital room window (four-year-old kids weren't allowed to go past the McKinney hospital's
lobby in 1965). I see him coming
into my and Julie's room in the wee hours of the morning to give Julie
her nighttime bottles so Mommy could get some rest. I watch my
five-year-old hand drawing Daddy with little sticks for hair since he
had a burr; I was so proud that I drew his hair "just like it
really looks!"
In first grade, I hear myself bragging on him
to some of the boys—"My daddy sailed across the BIGGEST
ocean in the world!" I feel so special and important when he
pins on my first corsage as we get ready to go to the Brownie
Daddy-Daughter banquet (just look at my face in the picture Mommy took
that evening). I see him putting breakfast on the table every
morning while the rest of us are still sleepy (something he does even
now when my kids and husband and I visit at my parents' house). I see him wearing his tool belt and climbing
all over the frames of the houses that he, Mommy, and Paw Paw built
for us. I hear him griping about never being able to find his
tools (he usually left them in the grass and found them with the mower
later). I hear him spitting out a few choice words after bumping
his six-foot-high head on any number of things (combines, light
fixtures, door frames ...).
I see the puzzled looks on my
and Mommy's faces as we try to figure out what in the world he's
hollering about (at the top of his lungs) from the far east fields at
the Aubrey ranch.
Daddy hollers—"Hey!!!
HEY!!!" Lauri asks—"Is that Daddy hollering?" Lauri and Mommy ask each
other—"Can
you tell
what he's saying?" and yell back—"What???"
Finally we understand what he's hollering—"Hey!!! HEY!!! Bring me the GUN!!!" so he can shoot the coyotes
that are too close to our calves.
I hear him holler,
"Aaaahhh!!!" and throw his cap down at his feet where he
finally spots my binoculars (which I left in the middle of the alfalfa
field when I was six) after we all spent a very long time methodically searching
for them. Thirty years later in 1997, my four-year-old firstborn
son
watched the Hale-Bopp comet through those same binoculars. I hear
the auctioneer's singsong gibberish at the Pilot Point livestock sale
barn when Daddy takes me with him—one of my all-time favorite childhood
activities, for some strange reason. I watch him carefully
catching giant carp fish—with his hands—in the lake we're draining as
our family, plus our favorite cousins, Kevin and Bruce, catch carp with
nets. (Okay, Julie was only four and mainly got herself caught
in the mud; but we all had an absolutely great time—another favorite
childhood event.)
I hear Daddy driving the tractor by the house on
his way to the fields and smell the tractor exhaust in the morning air;
and I see him almost popping wheelies on the tractor during intense
cattle herding! I see his suntanned arms contrasting with his
light skin when he takes his T-shirt off after the first few summer
weeks in the fields. I hear the quietness of dawn in the river bottoms
as we all four climb into the rowboat to check the trotlines on the branch
of the Trinity River that bordered our ranch. ("Don't put
your fingers in the water, or the gar will bite one off!")
At
age 11, I feel important when he lets me drive for the first time—slowly through one of the
fields—so he can throw rabbit manure on
it from the pickup bed. During the night, I hear the sound of
walkie-talkies and shotguns that carry out his military strategy for
ambushing the rampaging dog pack that kept killing the rabbits we
raised. The ambushes resulted in our
crepe myrtles taking as much buckshot as the dogs:
Mommy radios Daddy when the dogs go by
her in the house. Daddy, hiding in the big green truck by our
rabbit pens, blasts them when they go for the rabbits. Mommy
shoots them again as they run back by the house, and Paw Paw hits them
one more time as they streak by the trailer house on their way off our
ranch.
When I remember
Dad . . . I feel myself gently waking up on school
mornings with back rubs and going to bed at night with leg rubs (because
my muscles ached so much that I cried after intense daily workouts in
ninth-grade athletics). During my early adult years, I watch him
lift heavy furniture and book boxes to help me move multiple
times. I feel confident I'll make it down the aisle at my wedding
without tripping because I'm holding onto his arm. I hear Mom on
the phone telling me that Dad felt so sorry for our poor dog Raisa,
"freezing" in a cold kennel while we drove to Iowa one
Christmas, that he drove the 100 miles from Paris to Plano to rescue her! I
feel him putting more covers on my legs just after my firstborn child's birth because
they were shaking uncontrollably (actually, my legs weren't cold but
completely exhausted from pushing that big baby out).
I feel
wonderful as I see the look on Dad's face as he picks up my firstborn
(and his first grandchild) for the
first time and says proudly, "I've got me a grandson!"
He'd always wanted "a redheaded grandson," and I got to give
him two! (Well, reddish-blond like me, but that's close
enough.) I forgive him for commenting on my still pregnant-looking
stomach the day after giving birth to each of my boys when, a year and a
half after the last one was born, he tells Mom, "You know
what? That's a good-looking set of legs!" when I wore a dress
and heels. I see my oldest son sleeping safely in the bed Grandpa Mark
made him when he was two (it's so sturdy it ought to last until he's 200), and I watch
him playing on the "walking boards" Grandpa Mark made him for his fourth
birthday (just like Dad and Mom made for my fourth birthday). I see the joy and absolute trust on
my
17-month-old younger son's face as Grandpa Mark proudly carries him around in
his arms.
When I look at
Mark, I see . . .
... someone who is especially
kind to animals—he gets a dog repaired instead of putting him to
sleep when another dog bites his eye out. He rescues freezing
whippets, performs the Heimlich maneuver on choking dachshunds, and
builds caskets to bury our pets in even now.
... a God-given musical talent—he has a voice I wish I had, the ability to play by ear (thank
goodness I got that one), and the ability to whistle two notes
simultaneously, harmonizing with himself.
... a teacher the little kids
at school adored—he sometimes had a kid on each of his fingers
when he walked around the playground, and he always told fascinating
stories in science class (some on the subject, some off). I know
because I was one of the fifth-graders listening in 1971.
... a knowledge of many things
and curiosity about everything, plus a fantastic memory to save
it all. (As Uncle Earl said, "He remembers everything he's
ever read.")
... a love for science and
flying (including space flight) that he definitely passed on to me—including the tradition of running outside to see "What kind
of plane is that?!" whenever we hear one flying
over. (I look like a hick sometimes, but I do it
anyway!) And I can still tell a tibia from a fibula and a radius
from an ulna.
... someone I'm proud of, I brag
on, and teach my children about.
... someone who should put this letter where he can see
it every day.
Just thought you'd like to know more
about my dad. (May 24, 1998)
|
