I couldn’t wait to get into bed on the nights after my Mom had changed the linen. Nothing is better than fresh sheets. I cherished it as much as the nights that my Dad would brush my hair after my night time bath. If my Mom pulled bathing chores, she would have a business-like approach to the brushing of my hair. My Dad? He would take his time, slowly brushing my hair with a gentleness and care…perhaps unsure what a girl would think was important. He would blow dry small portions, always checking the dryness.
When he was satisfied that my hair was well dry, I’d rush to my room, put on a fresh nightgown and dive in. I couldn’t wait to enter those cold clean sheets. And that is what it was like. Just like diving into a pool on an early June day. Something that tingled and made your body come alive.
I would bury myself in. Kicking my feet. I am sure that it would look like I was treading water. No. I was merely trying to create warmth in the nether reaches of my nest. I would stretch my nightgown down, twisting and turning… scratching and pawing at the sheets willing that they surrender their comfort.
Settled, I would reach for a book to occupy me ‘til Dad would come in. I would look at something that would in no way interfere with what we would “read” together.
It would always be the same. I would hear a knock…
“Are you ready for me, Bird?” he would ask.
And I would giggle, kick my feet in the covers and scrunch up with my pillow, “yes, I’m ready.”
Dad would come in, four or five books under arm, “Well… let’s see. What would you like to hear tonight?”
I would kick my feet, not sure whether I had knocked all the cold from the bed, and bring the covers up to my nose… and I would giggle, “I don’t know… you choose!” And I would giggle and kick my feet again… my hair is beautiful, I’m wearing my favorite nightgown with lavender flowers, Mom has made a fresh bed.
“Well, then… let’s see here.” And he would search thru his books on hand, “I think a good story for tonight might be The Four Dwarfs and Passover.”
I would bicycle my feet, re-position my nightgown, re-draw my covers up to my nose… and then inch them down so I could say, “I thought there were seven dwarfs.”
“Well Bird… you are just going to have to listen to the story.”
I loved my Dad’s voice. It was soothing. It was reassuring. It was warm and safe. As warm as my blankets, as safe as a castle keep. And to hear his words was enveloping… something that secured me. I would be lulled, like music to a savage beast. Oh, sure… I spent my day at school or in play running about… and I guess I could have fallen asleep no matter how you slice the pie.
There are actors who have that “talent”… the ability to project strength and compassion thru their voice alone – Morgan Freeman comes to mind… But for me, hearing Dad’s voice was like a sedative… it put me to ease. I could listen to my Dad giving a weather report. And for sure at the end of a busy day of study and play I welcomed that sound as any that I have heard.
Oh, to listen to his voice.
I would cycle my legs once or twice, turn on to my right side and bring the covers to my chin.
Dad would turn off the main light in my room. Sit at the base of my bed, with only the lamp from my desk for light. He would open to a page.
Never mind that the four dwarfs turned into the Hiryu, the Soryu, the Kaga and the Akagi… the four aircraft carriers that we sunk at the Battle of Midway.
Never mind that he never really read from the book.
And never mind that The Fat Cheese and the French Fry turned into the Battle of Agincourt, or that The Feast of Alice turned into the Congress of Vienna, or that The Tower of Jell-O and Pirate King turned into the defeat of Chinese Gordon at Khartoum and that The Day the Honey Bear Lost His Pants became the Japanese Battle Fleet crossing the Russian Fleet’s “T” at Tushima Strait.
My Dad would simply open a book and begin with a description of the pitching sea, the sky and the smell of the sea breeze… and I would be taken for a journey on his soothing voice… to places I could only dream about.
He could take the wind beating against the window pane in my room to describe the sound of the arrow flight the English long-bowmen sent into the ranks of the terrified French soldiers of King Charles VI.
He would always find a way to include me in his story. I would be seated next to Prince Metternich as we had dinner with Talleyrand, Wellington and Nesselrode as we tried to bring order to war ravaged Europe. “You would have been dressed in your finest,” he would have said to me, and I would have been carried off to my dreams on thoughts of thick tables, and chandeliered rooms with grand paintings & tapestries.
When my eyes became heavy I would just hear the melody of his words & phrases… and I would be taken to my day’s rest and tucked in for the night. Dad would close his book, kiss me on the forehead and say, “Dream of an exciting world, Bird… it lays before your feet.”
He would turn off my desk lamp… and he would be gone.
It is Spring now and I am preparing to take my 11th Grade Modern European History Class to the Pacific. Even though it’s a lecture I have given year after year, I still like to review my notes. Six months after the Japanese sank our Battleship Fleet at Pearl, a numerically inferior American Task Force met and decisively defeated the Japanese Carrier Fleet at Midway. It was a Battle of critical importance, maybe the most important of the War. It stopped the Japanese in their tracks and permitted Roosevelt to pursue his policy of Germany first.
I glance at the title of my lecture and smile… Four Dwarfs and Passover.