Sunday, June 15, 2008
I am Gary Hutson's daughter.
He could try to deny it, but the proof is there each time I look in the mirror. It's in the deep-set eyes, the high cheekbones, the long face that runs to hollow-cheeked when I am tired. It's all there. It is in my hands and feet- the fingers and toes so long and straight, the instep high. Many who know me say I am my mother all over again, or even "Little Madge," but that is mannerisms. No, I may act like Mudder, and hold my head like she and Gram do, but much of the raw material is Dad.
Dad gave me his love of history, poetry, and Poe. In fact, he wanted to name me Lenore, a fight I am eternally grateful he lost! It is a lovely name, but I am not sure I could handle the knowledge that I was named after "the queenliest dead that ever died so young". (I never said the man was always practical!)
We both tend to favor American History, though he prefers the Civil War Era and I lean more toward The Revolution. One summer, our travel plans included a day in Gettysburg. We visited the Cyclorama and toured the battlefields. Each field is marked with details about who fought, whence they came, and how many casualties. About two thirds in to our auto tour, a voice pipes from the back seat, "Are we gonna stop and read every sign in the whole park?" I guess my sister wasn't feeling it like Dad and I were. (Incidentally, when I married Norm Wolske's son, I learned that he, too, has an aversion to reading placards. Rats.)
My father is a storyteller. He knows just how to pitch his voice, just when to pause, just when to whisper. I love to watch him work-- he can actually hold kids' attention with just a story. In our world of video games, and special effects, this is no mean feat. As his children are all grown and have yet to present him with any grandchildren, Dad tells his stories to children at church.
My father is an artist. He draws cartoons in the most unlikely places- margins of meeting minutes and agenda, the notepad next to the phone. His doodles are never boring.
With all that my father is, he is just a man. He has faults and failings just as any other. However, my father has done his job-- he has given me a tiny glimpse into how much Father loves me. The Bible uses many images to convey God's love for us, but one is enough for me. My father has clued me in to how much my Father loves.