The Best of My Love

I sat down at my desk this morning to pull the morning reports for Cathy, and when I took a look at the calendar, I took a deep breath. The date hit me like a ton of bricks.

My daddy would have been 64 today.

I miss him terribly, and I can't help but wonder what Daddy would be like if he were still around to celebrate his birthday. Would Tracey and I take him out to Miyabi's and laugh when he couldn't understand our cook? Or would this have been the year that Tracey and I decided to take him to Nashville, so he could watch The Grand Ole Opry live? Would he be so proud he could burst because Trey's playing college baseball? Would he cry the way my mother does when Cathryn takes the stage to sing? What would he think about our crazy dog, Ashe?

Daddy and I didn't always see eye to eye; in fact, we disagreed more than anything. But I loved him deeply, and I know that he loved me. He was my daddy. He went to work when he was sick; he wouldn't quit no matter how much he hated working at the Steel Mill because he all he could see when he thought about quitting was our faces at home. He wasn't very serious, and I think that's why he and I butted heads so many times--because in my youth, I took myself VERY seriously. I still struggle today with learning to laugh at myself, something that my sister has always been able to do with great ease.

Looking back, I wish I hadn't been as hard and argumentative as I was with the old man. But I can't do anything about that now.

When I was eighteen or nineteen, I heard "The Best of My Love" by The Eagles for the first time. I know that it was originally written as a love song, but when I heard it, all I could do was think about Daddy and how he and I related to one another. Because through everything, that's what we were trying to do--love each other the best way we knew how.

Every night I'm lying in bed
Holding you close in my dreams
Thinking about all the things that we said
And coming apart at the seams
We try to talk it over
But the words come out too rough
I know you were trying
To give me the best of your love

Beautiful faces and loud, empty places
Look at the way that we live
Wasting our time on cheap talk and wine
Left us so little to give
That same old crowd
Was like a cold dark cloud
That we could never rise above
But here in my heart I give you the best of my love
Oh sweet darling you get the best of my love, oh
Sweet darling, you get the best of my love

I'm going back in time
And it's a sweet dream
It was a quiet night
And I would be all right
If I could go on sleeping
But every morning
I wake up and worry
What's gonna happen today
You see it your way
And I see it mine
But we both see it slipping away

You know we always had each other baby
I guess that wasn't enough
Oh, but here in my heart
I give you the best of my love

Happy Birthday, Daddy. I wish I could have loved you better, and for much longer.

Roy Jones

My daddy died six years ago yesterday. My sister had to remind me. It was nice, though, reminiscing about growing up with Roy and his quirky ways.

I'm actually a bit disappointed in myself for not remembering, because I've been thinking about him an awful lot lately. I was even planning a post about him on Father's Day. I miss him a lot, and I wish I'd been humble enough and smart enough to spend more time with him when he was alive.

My daddy was an original. And yeah, I know that God made us all unique, but Roy Jones was something else. First and foremost, Daddy was funny, and he didn't have a sense of humor like everyone else's. Daddy's sense of humor was very dry, very off-kilter, and I'm sure that's where Tracey and I got our very dry, very off-kilter sense of humor. A few examples: Daddy would tell us to call his family and tell them that he had passed "so somebody will send over some good desserts"; he would also have no problem answering the phone "Joe's Pool Hall" or "Graham Funeral Home".

He also loved to make up the most ridiculous, nonsensical songs--like a countryfied Lewis Carroll. I remember being no more than seven or eight, and Daddy getting the pure giggles out of watching a man receive a ticket in the Wal-Mart parking lot. The name of the song? "Little Yellow Ticket", and I can recite it word for word. Just don't ask.

Daddy had several hobbies--hunting and fishing, tearing up old vehicles just to put them back together again, and his favorite, antagonizing people who were easily ruffled, like our grandmother or me. My daddy was not easily ruffled--my sister inherited that from him, as well as his love of antagonizing, so he would get a kick out of seeing how far he could push our mother's mother, Mammy to us, by calling her "Goofy" or talking about various people Mammy didn't like. As for me, all it took was two words--"Double Time"--to throw me into a tailspin. You see, I've been known to be a little slow (I prefer methodical with perfectionism tendencies), so Daddy used to try to speed me up with that little phrase. I hate to admit it, but it irks me to this day.

The most important thing about my father, though, was that he was, at all times, unfailingly himself. He did not pretend to be someone else, nor did he want to be anyone else. He loved Hank Williams and peanuts in Pepsi. He wore denim overalls and plaid shirts everywhere--even to church. He did not believe in calling in sick to work unless you were on your deathbed. He believed in working for what you wanted.

I wish he was here for me to tell him that I wish I could be more like him.