Butch Says Dads Are Very Forgiving!

 In looking back at my pre-school days, I realize that many times I was the definition of a “problem child.” Yes, I was mischievous and stubborn. I played, explored, imitated grown-ups and misbehaved . . . not all the time mind you . . . but enough to aggravate my parents to no end on many occasions. Mom would tell me, “Just wait till your father comes home!” Yes, sometimes he punished me, but he also had his forgiving side. It reminds me of a poem by my favorite author, Edgar Guest, entitled, “When Pa Comes Home.”

   “When Pa comes home, I’m at the door, An’ then he grabs me off the floor, An’ throws me up an’ catches me, When I come down an’ then says he: ‘Well how’d you get along today? An’ were you good, an’ did you play, An’ keep right out of mamma’s way? An’ how’d you get that awful bump, Above your eye? My, what a lump! An’ who spilled jelly on your shirt? An’ where’d you ever find that dirt, That’s on your hands? And my! Oh my! I guess those eyes have had a cry, They look so red. What was it, pray? What has been happening here today?’

  “An’ then he drops his coat an’ hat, Upon a chair, an’ says, ‘What’s that? Who knocked the engine on its back, An’ stepped upon that piece of track?’ An’ then he takes me on his knee, An’ says, ‘What’s this that now I see? Whatever can the matter be? Who strewed those toys upon the floor, An’ left those things behind the door? Who upset those parlor chairs, An’ threw those blocks upon the stairs? I guess a cyclone called today, While I was workin’ far away. Who was it worried mamma so? It can’t be anyone I know.’

   “An’ then I laugh an’ say; ‘It’s me! Me did most ever’thing you see. Me got this bump the time me tripped. An’ here is where the jelly slipped, Right off my bread upon my shirt, An’ when me tumbled down it hurt. That’s how me got all over dirt. Me threw those building blocks downstairs, An’ me upset the parlor chairs, ‘Coz when you’re playin’ train you’ve got, To move things ’round an awful lot.’ An’ then my Pa he kisses me, An’ bounces me upon his knee, An’ says, ‘Well, well, my little lad, What glorious fun you must have had!'”

   I think my Dad was like many fathers. He knew he had to punish me to correct my misbehavior. But he also remembered some of the “naughty” things he did when he was a young child . . . and he would just hold me tight and smile . . . That’s what Dads do best.

John “Butch” Dale is a retired teacher and County Sheriff. He has also been the librarian at Darlington the past 37 years, and is a well-known artist and author of local history.