My Daddy – The Man Who Was Always There

A tribute to my dad, Kerry B. Earle

Grandma, Daddy, and I would sit and talk for hours on Sundays after my grandpa died. My dad hated that she was by herself, so he and I came over loyally every Sunday. We would talk for hours in the carport living room about nothing at all. I could have spent eternity there with Grandma and Daddy — two of my favorite people on this earth. I’d lay my head on a pillow in my dad’s lap, and Grandma would look over and say, “You sure love your daddy, don’t you?”

In Creative Writing, they tell you to “show, don’t tell,” or as they say, “actions speak louder than words.” My dad embodied that sentiment. He never told me he loved me, and I never told him that I loved him. We didn’t need to — we knew it.

He showed me every day. He answered the phone every time I called. He was always willing to drive me somewhere — even if it was twenty miles an hour in a forty. He got me from point A to point B, always. Throughout my entire life, he was there.

In the years before my moma died, my parents were my best friends. Saturdays were for dinner and a movie with moma, and Sundays were for Grandma’s house with Daddy. I was in my late teens, and instead of going to parties or getting drunk somewhere, I spent my weekends with them. My parents and brother were my whole world and the only people I could truly be myself with. Like most families, we didn’t always get along but we could always depend on each other.

The hardest thing about losing my daddy is that, like moma, it feels like losing my best friend — the other half of my soul. He was such a part of my identity. We went shopping for supplements together at drugstores, sharing the latest “research” on remedies. We clipped coupons and reminded each other of current sales. We talked about politics and history and had similar viewpoints. We loved all the same music: The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Nirvana, The Byrds, The Mamas & The Papas. He was always surprised by how deep my knowledge of 1960’s bands ran. Daddy, Kyle, and I watched all the same shows together: Southpark, King of the Hill, and the Simpsons. We all three were jokesters and I think you can credit my dad for Kyle and I’s sense of humor. We were a dysfunctional, weird tribe who got one another. 

When I lived in the UK, I missed him terribly. I’d see a man at Waitrose, remember it couldn’t possibly be him, and silently cry as I finished shopping. I couldn’t get through the Magical Mystery Tour in Liverpool without sniffling on the bus, thinking he should be there with me. My heart ached for him when I visited the House of Commons and Churchill’s estate. He resented that I’d moved away because it meant losing one of his best friends. I wonder if he knew I felt the same.

Unlike me, my dad didn’t hold grudges. He could be fiery on the surface, but underneath, he deeply loved people and wanted to be around them. My childhood was full of parties, classic rock, cheap beer, and life. He never turned anyone away — everyone was always welcome. He appreciated every relationship he ever had. He sent people messages and GIFs on their birthdays (or just because) because he was thinking of them.

Despite being the products of a broken home, my brother and I had a great childhood. I didn’t appreciate it enough at the time, but my daddy gave us everything — a deck in the yard, a treehouse, an above-ground pool with decks for jumping, a trampoline, chickens, ducks, and goats. He rigged a surround sound system in the mimosa tree and strung lights around the pool. He loved children and animals and would do anything for them.

Now it’s my turn to experience the void my dad felt when I moved away — except this time, it’s permanent. I’ll never again be able to call him when I need him. Never again wander around Dillons with him. Never again tease him about his slow driving or BBQ sauce on his face. Never again sit and bullshit with him and Kyle at the holidays.

As painful as it was for him, I’m grateful I got to spend so much time with him in his final months. Before his illness, I worked so much that I didn’t see him often. But when he started dialysis, I saw him three days a week. I sometimes cried on my way to the treatment center just thinking about his mortality. I struggled watching movies or shows because all I could think about was his prognosis. But I didn’t want to scare him so I sobered up by the time he was released from dialysis. He was weary and quiet most days when I picked him up, but even just being with him meant everything.

I hope he knows how much Kyle and I loved him — and how desperately we wanted him to stay.