About Daddy (7)

Laura Ingalls said she didn’t want it forgotten that her father played that fiddle of his so beautifully out on the prairie during those evenings under the Western skies when it was pretty out and all the chores had been done. Well, I think I know a bit about how she felt. I don’t want it forgotten how serious and conscientious my Daddy was concerning the welfare of his five children and his incessant, lifelong efforts to meet their needs. It is, of course, one of the most important concerns of any father. Where it is lacking, well, things just don’t go right, do they?
Daddy always, repeat always, ate the chicken back, the neck, the wing, heart, liver, gizzard, etc. so that we kids had the choice pieces. Same with any other meat during a meal. After we got a bit bigger and started to notice things, I realized the sacrifice for what it was. He wouldn’t take our piece of chicken even though we sometimes offered it. I remember convincing mother one time in the supermarket to buy only chicken breasts so that we all had to eat the same pieces. She did that one time, I think, but, of course, she was economical in her shopping for five kids and a husband, so, common sense and her purse won out.
Daddy would tell me himself, sometimes, how his own daddy would eat the best and biggest cut of steak or piece(s) of chicken, and the kids would get what was left: the little pieces, in other words. I don’t know what his wife, my grandmother, got. Maybe a little piece or two, too, same as the kids.
The few personal or intimate things (and how few!) Daddy told me about his daddy during our talks were obviously things that affected him deeply or he wouldn’t have kept them on his mind all his life. Anyway, to conclude, that grandpa I never knew lived his life, Daddy lived his, and I’m now living mine. Agatha Christie said once that a life of any length was a complete life. That woman, I think, knew a lot more than people normally think she knew. Thanks for reading.