After a long illness, my father passed away last week. Though I’m sad, this is not a column about being sad.
My dad was a larger-than-life figure in the town where I grew up, mainly because he was a good football coach. Even so, there are things about him important to know beyond that particular detail.
First, he was a terrible singer. That fact did not stop him from trying. He believed in making a joyful noise.
When I was a little girl, we lived out in the country. My dad took me to kindergarten every morning in his old truck, the Blue Goose. On most mornings all the way into town, he and I sang. Our repertoire included “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain,” “Oh, My Darling Clementine” and “Bingo Was His Name-o.” (He drove and I did the clapping parts.) But our favorite song, and the one we usually started and ended with, was "Open Up Your Heart And Let The Sun Shine In."
The lyrics go, “Oh, let the sun shine in. Face it with a grin. Open up your heart and let the sun shine in.”
The sentiment of opening one’s heart and letting the sun shine in speaks so much to the life my dad lived. He embraced the fun. He believed in making the best of every moment.
A few years ago, to celebrate my 50th birthday, I told my parents I wanted an old-fashioned field day — the kind my dad used to organize at the school where he coached and I attended. My parents went to great lengths in putting together games they thought appropriate for 50-year-old women to play. Friends came from nine states. My parents wore us out with the activities they planned. Of course, my dad had to tell each of my friends all about Forest, our tiny town. To each person, he ended his description with, “We’ve found what the rest of the world is looking for.”
If we could all see the world through the lens my dad saw Forest, Mississippi, we would be happier. Many might see Forest as just another little town on the verge of withering away, but my dad loved an underdog.
He was the king of making do. Why spent $5 on a two-by-four when there was a perfectly good piece of linoleum he could fold over several times and make work? While he believed, whenever possible in investing in and using the best tools, when it came to the ingredients of a project, he scrimped — at best. He knew he could pull together whatever pieces he had on hand or could find, work with them to get them just so and make the whole thing fine.
That line of thinking also goes a long way in explaining my dad. For the people he coached, taught and worked with, chances are he used the best tools he could find to yield the best results possible. Often, like that piece of linoleum I mentioned earlier, those results required bending in ways no one saw coming or believed themselves capable of — including himself. Even so, sometimes the results he conjured were astounding. Granted, he could be aggravating, but his relentless gumption and enthusiasm usually triumphed and kept all involved heading toward the goal.
The day after he died, I got a message from a childhood friend. It read, “I want you to know I love you and your family. Your mama and daddy looked out for this kid from a broken home whose parent left to raise me was gone all the time working several jobs.”
Another friend sent me a message that read, “At the end of football practice, we would go through several team call and responses from your dad, but the one that was my favorite was when he would ask, ‘Who loves you?’ And we would yell back, ‘Coach Risher!’ He would ask again, even louder, ‘Who loves you?’ And we would yell louder back, ‘Coach Risher!’”
I’ve told people throughout my adulthood that I owe much of my positive outlook on life to the boys in red and blue who scored more touchdowns than their opponents throughout my formative years. Back then, it felt like my dad was almost as bright as the Friday night lights.
In the past 21 years, I’ve written 1,082 newspaper columns. More than once, I’ve been grateful I had the father I had — as he provided so much content. He was a walking good story. He loved to laugh. He loved to teach. He loved to coach. He loved my mama. He loved my brothers. He loved me.
His spirit will remain in the ways he helped others open their hearts to let the sun shine in and in those little bits of dust that glimmer in the Friday night lights.
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October 02, 2022 at 05:15PM
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'Open up your heart and let the sun shine in': Long Story Short - NOLA.com
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