Today would be my dad's 71st birthday. Here are some of my favorite stories and memories of him. I began compiling these memories not long after he passed away.
Of course, we’d go through the list of everyone in our family and all of my friends. Then, I’d try to find words that just sounded funny or made bad words in the rhyme. Dad would begin the rhyme and stop just before he’d say the bad word. I think he knew what I was up to.
Some of his silly songs I have taught to my kids, not that they are particularly appropriate but because my dad taught them to me.
“Birdie, Birdie in the sky,
Dropped a present in my eye.
I’m a big boy, I won’t cry.
I’m just glad that cows don’t fly!”
Then there is the good ole,
“Beans, beans, the musical fruit!
The more you eat, the more you toot!
The more you toot, the better you feel!
So let’s have beans for every meal!”
Mom just shook her head and said, “Clive”, in that ‘mom tone’ we all know about.
Prayer time was never off limits either. Many meals were blessed with the prayer,
“Good prayer. Good meat. Good gosh. Let’s eat!”
or
“Over the lips and through the gums.
Watch out tummy, Here It Comes!”
Once again, mom cried, “Clive!”
His sense of humor sometimes made public appearances-much to my dismay.
I am ashamed to say that on more than just one occasion I’d run away from him in public. Let me explain. As a young teen, image is everything. Right? I was never ashamed of my dad, except when he did this. Upon entering the mall-yes, the mall- my dad would pull his pants up until they nearly touched his chin. He then would reach down and pull his white tube socks up over his pant legs and then with an exaggerated buck-teethed grin, holler out my name. Can you believe a grown man would be so crazy? I can. Oh, and yes, if you were in the bathroom, when he passed by, he would pound on the door, and holler, “This is the police. Come out with your pants up!”
Now not all trips to the mall were this devastating. My dad had these amazingly long legs. (I always believed he was my dad because I thought that my legs were long too.) He had a stride that I would always try to duplicate. On almost every occasion he would realize what I was doing and proceed to make each step bigger. Soon he and I would be in a dead run as I would to try to keep up.
His size 13 feet came in handy when I was a kid. Many times we’d sit on his feet and then latch onto his legs as he’d walk through the house. My favorite was to have a ride as dad climbed the stairs. This was such a treat but it came to an end when dad was in a car accident. His back and body never quite recovered from that event.
There wasn’t much that my dad was afraid of. The only thing I remember that terrified him was spiders. We lived near the woods and spiders were everywhere. It always seemed that during the night a spider would make a web along the route to dad’s work van. I could hear him scream like a girl as he passed through the web and often times I’d see him flailing his arms over his body to get the spider off of him. And some days I’d come home to find a big, nasty looking spider under a mason jar. Dad wanted to show off his catch, but I believed that he would cover them up until they were good and dead, then he might have enough nerve to dispose of it.
Dating was always fun with dad around. He warned me that I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 35. He also threatened that he’d answer the door with a shotgun on many occasions. I was more concerned that he might answer the phone with his infamous, “Hell-no?” and scare off anyone who might be calling. I encourage him to be on his best behavior whenever I had someone over. One time, he and mom had just returned home from the store and dad was putting his ‘Stetson’ aftershave away. For some reason he commented to my boyfriend that aftershave was nearly all alcohol. And asked him if he wanted a drink. He said, “I will, if you will.” And they did.
Dad didn’t drink, but always was eating something crazy. He had the stomach of a goat. Often times you could find him eating; pickled pigs feet, sardines, spicy-hot pickles, liver and onions, and other really disgusting foods that should have been thrown out. He would offer us large amounts of money if we would just try some of his foods. Later in life his stomach gave him fits. I can’t imagine why.
Dad was an amazing baker. MMMMMMM. Just thinking of his treats makes me smile. He would jam pack cookies and brownies with anything and everything in the cupboard. He even brought me hot apple dumplings in the hospital after my little Nathan was born. As he aged to perfection, his stomach couldn’t handle dairy products, and he would make creative concoctions to satisfy his sweet tooth. I even found myself perusing the natural foods to find substitutes for milk, cheeses, sour cream and butter, just so he could eat some of his favorite dishes.
A day never went by without him buying a Big Gulp drink of Diet Pepsi. That stuff is nasty! I would only take a sip if I was dying of thirst. There were many times that dad would pull some cash from his pocket and ask me or my siblings to run to the corner store for something. The moment we came through the door, he would howl, “Where’s my change?” Of course we would return what was left, and he would add it to the large collection of nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies that weighed his pants down. I really think the only reason he wore a belt was because of all the change he toted around.
Summertime brought wonderful veggies from his garden. In the heat of the summer, he would get home from work and head out to his garden. Looking back on it now, he was a master. I can only dream of duplicating the harvest he created in our yard each year. I think his trick was fish fertilizer. His veggies would have taken first prize at any local fair!
I have so many wonderful memories of my dad. And every day I think of how lucky I was to have him in my life. He taught me so many things. I just love that guy!
I must take some time and write the memories of my wonderful dad, Clive Brent Hope Senior. I understand that he came into my life when I was just about 2 years old. I knew no other man than him as my father. He showed me the kind of love only a true father could show his own child. For that, I am eternally grateful. Mom says I was about 1 and a half when I met the man I would forever call “dad”. Mom says they met in November, a few days before Thanksgiving. Dad says the first time he ever saw my mom he asked permission from my moms friend to kiss her. I think you could say, “That man stole my mother’s heart at first kiss.”
Mom just told me recently that their first date was Thanksgiving dinner. I asked if my older sister and I were invited she said “Absolutely.” This made me realize he wasn’t only after my mother’s heart, but cared early on for her two little girls. He always liked to tell us of the time he and mom were on a date, my sister Marla and I came along too. My mom had gone to take me to the bathroom, AGAIN!, leaving Marla, who was about 3 1/2 alone with him. Marla had finished her grilled cheese sandwich, and desiring, more stood on the booth chair and yelled at the top of her lungs, “MORE SANDWICH!” Dad said this terrified him. He almost fled the scene in embarrassment. He said he truly just loved us and knew he wanted to be with my mom and her two little tag-alongs.
My dad was a kind, gentle, and patient man. He was born August 4, 1938, in Rexburg, Idaho. Where he swears the best potatoes in the world come from. Many times I’d see him checking the labels on the potatoes at the grocery store just to buy those grown in Idaho. I think he did this because his youngest sister worked in the potato industry in Idaho, and I know he was thinking of her and wondered if she was the one who last handled the potatoes.
The memories of him are fresh in my mind. He was tall in stature, standing 6’4”. His hair was black and his matching mustache tickled when he kissed me. He loved to tease my siblings and I with his scratchy “whisker kisses”. A few times he had been known to shave it off, revealing a smile that included what I considered to be missing an upper lip. The days he would shave it off, he would stroll into the room, and it would usually take some time before we realized what was different with him. Finally realizing what he’d done, Id say,”You shaved off your mustache. Your lip is gonna get cold. Oh, no it won’t, you don’t have one.” Then we’d giggle, and I would think he’d better grow it back because, I just love those “whisker kisses”.
My dad’s hair was always perfectly and skillfully combed. Rarely do I recall my father coming out of the bathroom from his morning shower, without being fully prepared for the day. His fine black hair was receding and he was in denial. He parted his hair on the left and ever so carefully had mastered what I called a ‘garbage can lid’ hairdo. I know you have seen this before. The hairdo consists of growing the top long, and swirling it ever so gently around the forehead. Then, to make the “do” permanent he’d spray it with hairspray until firm. I swear this technique took about a half of an hour to complete. (I know this because of the many mornings I had to wait outside the bathroom door for him to finish.) Now, I referred to this as the ‘garbage can lid’ hairdo, because of what happened to it in the wind. It would lift almost vertical, much to my dad’s dismay. For this reason he avoided the wind unless he had a hat on.
Being in the Drywall trade my father also had to contend with taping mud. Taping mud is the white mud used to cover the joint in sheets of sheetrock. It would speckle dad’s hair, coat his fingernails and wristwatch after a hard days work. We called it “bird poop” because of the way it landed on him during a long days work. I loved to sit on my dad’s lap when he’d come home and talk to him and pick the mud from his hair, watch and arm hair. It seemed that nearly every time that I was so engrossed in cleaning the mud from his watch, he’d go ”hornk” (a deep nasally pig sound) and grab my knee. This would scare me out of my pants. He’d laugh so hard, I’m sure it’s because he knew he could scare me over and over. To this day I’m sure he could still catch me off guard and I’d jump and then slug him in the arm and say, “Daaaad” in that exaggerated tone. I loved that. He died with taping mud still on his fingernails. When I see him in heaven I hope to have the opportunity to sit and have him go “hornk”.
I remember his hands they were so big and strong. Once on a camping trip he asked, “Can you do this?” Then with an apple in hand, he’d somehow twist it into two halves. It was absolutely amazing. As a little girl I remember trying hard to twist apples in two like my dad could. He could also rip a 3-inch phone book in two with his strong hands. Open the tightest lid. Lift the heaviest objects. And yet comfort with the gentlest touch. I remember him giving me a father’s blessing. His hands covered my entire head. They were warm, and heavy in a reassuring way. I find comfort and peace in that memory of his hands.
When dad came home from work, I loved to sit on his lap or sit beside him, I’d take his hands in mine and I’d measure mine with his, then he say, “Look at this owie.” He’d show me a sliver or a cut he’d gotten and he’d tell me how he got it. I remember feeling his pain then I’d kiss it, thinking that might help. Then he’d proceed to locate any knick or scrape and I kiss them better too. He had the most amazing stories as to how he received these wounds, most of them not true of course,
My dad was the hardest worker. He worked from the moment he awoke (about 4am), until the moment he returned to bed, (usually around 8 or 9 pm). I remember coming home from school one day to find my dad sitting on the chair with one leg in a cast. Immediately, I questioned how it happened, He then proceeded to tell me how he slipped off the back of his “Spray Reg” (This was what we called his rig that sprayed texture on sheetrock). With his leg in a cast, I thought for certain that he’d take a day off. But no, not my dad. Early the next morning he headed back to work, and I’m sure it was even a few hours earlier so he could make up some time because he knew his leg would slow him down. That next day when I returned home, there my dad was with TWO casts. He’d broken the other leg the exact same way. Believe it or not, that didn’t slow him down, He returned to work the following day determined to catch up and finish his house on time. And I’m sure that he did.
Quite often in the construction industry things were slow. My dad often found work out of state to make ends meet. There was a time when we lived in Washington State and he found work in New Hampshire. For months my dad worked so far from home. I remember when the job was through he drove home in 2 days. He never stopped for anything but a bathroom break. And when he called home he always told us he was further away than he really was, and he surprised us all making the trip home in record time.
Dad’s sense of humor was wonderful and never-ending. Daily he would stuff something inside the toe my shoes. You would think I’d be used to it after the many years of teasing. But no, I’d slip my toes into my shoes and quickly pull them out with at jump, only to find a paperclip, a roll of scotch tape or wadded piece of paper that said ‘I LOVE YOU! – POOP (Crossed out) –Pop’. I am sure this went on for as long as it did, because I would do the same to him.
Silly poems and notes were left around the house everywhere from dad.
He’d make up the silliest rhymes for where he was going and when he’d return. His grocery lists always included peanut butter and something silly that we didn’t need. And best of all he left little messages throughout the house to remind us that he loved us. Many times after taking a shower I’d find a message scribbled in the steam on the mirror from him earlier that morning. Sometimes I’d try to get in the shower before him just to write one to him. Some mornings he and I would sneak out to each others cars just to write a note in the frost. I remember the day he passed away, there was a note on the table with a list of things he hoped to accomplish before we returned home.
Some of my favorite rhymes and songs include,
The name song where he’d begin with your name, Like mine-Kelli would go like this,
Kelli bum belli
Titty elli go felli,
Tee legged, Ty legged
Bow legged, Kelli.
Mom just told me recently that their first date was Thanksgiving dinner. I asked if my older sister and I were invited she said “Absolutely.” This made me realize he wasn’t only after my mother’s heart, but cared early on for her two little girls. He always liked to tell us of the time he and mom were on a date, my sister Marla and I came along too. My mom had gone to take me to the bathroom, AGAIN!, leaving Marla, who was about 3 1/2 alone with him. Marla had finished her grilled cheese sandwich, and desiring, more stood on the booth chair and yelled at the top of her lungs, “MORE SANDWICH!” Dad said this terrified him. He almost fled the scene in embarrassment. He said he truly just loved us and knew he wanted to be with my mom and her two little tag-alongs.
My dad was a kind, gentle, and patient man. He was born August 4, 1938, in Rexburg, Idaho. Where he swears the best potatoes in the world come from. Many times I’d see him checking the labels on the potatoes at the grocery store just to buy those grown in Idaho. I think he did this because his youngest sister worked in the potato industry in Idaho, and I know he was thinking of her and wondered if she was the one who last handled the potatoes.
The memories of him are fresh in my mind. He was tall in stature, standing 6’4”. His hair was black and his matching mustache tickled when he kissed me. He loved to tease my siblings and I with his scratchy “whisker kisses”. A few times he had been known to shave it off, revealing a smile that included what I considered to be missing an upper lip. The days he would shave it off, he would stroll into the room, and it would usually take some time before we realized what was different with him. Finally realizing what he’d done, Id say,”You shaved off your mustache. Your lip is gonna get cold. Oh, no it won’t, you don’t have one.” Then we’d giggle, and I would think he’d better grow it back because, I just love those “whisker kisses”.
My dad’s hair was always perfectly and skillfully combed. Rarely do I recall my father coming out of the bathroom from his morning shower, without being fully prepared for the day. His fine black hair was receding and he was in denial. He parted his hair on the left and ever so carefully had mastered what I called a ‘garbage can lid’ hairdo. I know you have seen this before. The hairdo consists of growing the top long, and swirling it ever so gently around the forehead. Then, to make the “do” permanent he’d spray it with hairspray until firm. I swear this technique took about a half of an hour to complete. (I know this because of the many mornings I had to wait outside the bathroom door for him to finish.) Now, I referred to this as the ‘garbage can lid’ hairdo, because of what happened to it in the wind. It would lift almost vertical, much to my dad’s dismay. For this reason he avoided the wind unless he had a hat on.
Being in the Drywall trade my father also had to contend with taping mud. Taping mud is the white mud used to cover the joint in sheets of sheetrock. It would speckle dad’s hair, coat his fingernails and wristwatch after a hard days work. We called it “bird poop” because of the way it landed on him during a long days work. I loved to sit on my dad’s lap when he’d come home and talk to him and pick the mud from his hair, watch and arm hair. It seemed that nearly every time that I was so engrossed in cleaning the mud from his watch, he’d go ”hornk” (a deep nasally pig sound) and grab my knee. This would scare me out of my pants. He’d laugh so hard, I’m sure it’s because he knew he could scare me over and over. To this day I’m sure he could still catch me off guard and I’d jump and then slug him in the arm and say, “Daaaad” in that exaggerated tone. I loved that. He died with taping mud still on his fingernails. When I see him in heaven I hope to have the opportunity to sit and have him go “hornk”.I remember his hands they were so big and strong. Once on a camping trip he asked, “Can you do this?” Then with an apple in hand, he’d somehow twist it into two halves. It was absolutely amazing. As a little girl I remember trying hard to twist apples in two like my dad could. He could also rip a 3-inch phone book in two with his strong hands. Open the tightest lid. Lift the heaviest objects. And yet comfort with the gentlest touch. I remember him giving me a father’s blessing. His hands covered my entire head. They were warm, and heavy in a reassuring way. I find comfort and peace in that memory of his hands.
When dad came home from work, I loved to sit on his lap or sit beside him, I’d take his hands in mine and I’d measure mine with his, then he say, “Look at this owie.” He’d show me a sliver or a cut he’d gotten and he’d tell me how he got it. I remember feeling his pain then I’d kiss it, thinking that might help. Then he’d proceed to locate any knick or scrape and I kiss them better too. He had the most amazing stories as to how he received these wounds, most of them not true of course,
My dad was the hardest worker. He worked from the moment he awoke (about 4am), until the moment he returned to bed, (usually around 8 or 9 pm). I remember coming home from school one day to find my dad sitting on the chair with one leg in a cast. Immediately, I questioned how it happened, He then proceeded to tell me how he slipped off the back of his “Spray Reg” (This was what we called his rig that sprayed texture on sheetrock). With his leg in a cast, I thought for certain that he’d take a day off. But no, not my dad. Early the next morning he headed back to work, and I’m sure it was even a few hours earlier so he could make up some time because he knew his leg would slow him down. That next day when I returned home, there my dad was with TWO casts. He’d broken the other leg the exact same way. Believe it or not, that didn’t slow him down, He returned to work the following day determined to catch up and finish his house on time. And I’m sure that he did.
Quite often in the construction industry things were slow. My dad often found work out of state to make ends meet. There was a time when we lived in Washington State and he found work in New Hampshire. For months my dad worked so far from home. I remember when the job was through he drove home in 2 days. He never stopped for anything but a bathroom break. And when he called home he always told us he was further away than he really was, and he surprised us all making the trip home in record time.
Dad’s sense of humor was wonderful and never-ending. Daily he would stuff something inside the toe my shoes. You would think I’d be used to it after the many years of teasing. But no, I’d slip my toes into my shoes and quickly pull them out with at jump, only to find a paperclip, a roll of scotch tape or wadded piece of paper that said ‘I LOVE YOU! – POOP (Crossed out) –Pop’. I am sure this went on for as long as it did, because I would do the same to him.
Silly poems and notes were left around the house everywhere from dad.He’d make up the silliest rhymes for where he was going and when he’d return. His grocery lists always included peanut butter and something silly that we didn’t need. And best of all he left little messages throughout the house to remind us that he loved us. Many times after taking a shower I’d find a message scribbled in the steam on the mirror from him earlier that morning. Sometimes I’d try to get in the shower before him just to write one to him. Some mornings he and I would sneak out to each others cars just to write a note in the frost. I remember the day he passed away, there was a note on the table with a list of things he hoped to accomplish before we returned home.
Some of my favorite rhymes and songs include,
The name song where he’d begin with your name, Like mine-Kelli would go like this,
Kelli bum belli
Titty elli go felli,
Tee legged, Ty legged
Bow legged, Kelli.
Of course, we’d go through the list of everyone in our family and all of my friends. Then, I’d try to find words that just sounded funny or made bad words in the rhyme. Dad would begin the rhyme and stop just before he’d say the bad word. I think he knew what I was up to.
Some of his silly songs I have taught to my kids, not that they are particularly appropriate but because my dad taught them to me.
“Birdie, Birdie in the sky,
Dropped a present in my eye.
I’m a big boy, I won’t cry.
I’m just glad that cows don’t fly!”
Then there is the good ole,
“Beans, beans, the musical fruit!
The more you eat, the more you toot!
The more you toot, the better you feel!
So let’s have beans for every meal!”
Mom just shook her head and said, “Clive”, in that ‘mom tone’ we all know about.
Prayer time was never off limits either. Many meals were blessed with the prayer,
“Good prayer. Good meat. Good gosh. Let’s eat!”
or
“Over the lips and through the gums.
Watch out tummy, Here It Comes!”
Once again, mom cried, “Clive!”
His sense of humor sometimes made public appearances-much to my dismay.
I am ashamed to say that on more than just one occasion I’d run away from him in public. Let me explain. As a young teen, image is everything. Right? I was never ashamed of my dad, except when he did this. Upon entering the mall-yes, the mall- my dad would pull his pants up until they nearly touched his chin. He then would reach down and pull his white tube socks up over his pant legs and then with an exaggerated buck-teethed grin, holler out my name. Can you believe a grown man would be so crazy? I can. Oh, and yes, if you were in the bathroom, when he passed by, he would pound on the door, and holler, “This is the police. Come out with your pants up!”
Now not all trips to the mall were this devastating. My dad had these amazingly long legs. (I always believed he was my dad because I thought that my legs were long too.) He had a stride that I would always try to duplicate. On almost every occasion he would realize what I was doing and proceed to make each step bigger. Soon he and I would be in a dead run as I would to try to keep up.His size 13 feet came in handy when I was a kid. Many times we’d sit on his feet and then latch onto his legs as he’d walk through the house. My favorite was to have a ride as dad climbed the stairs. This was such a treat but it came to an end when dad was in a car accident. His back and body never quite recovered from that event.
There wasn’t much that my dad was afraid of. The only thing I remember that terrified him was spiders. We lived near the woods and spiders were everywhere. It always seemed that during the night a spider would make a web along the route to dad’s work van. I could hear him scream like a girl as he passed through the web and often times I’d see him flailing his arms over his body to get the spider off of him. And some days I’d come home to find a big, nasty looking spider under a mason jar. Dad wanted to show off his catch, but I believed that he would cover them up until they were good and dead, then he might have enough nerve to dispose of it.
Dating was always fun with dad around. He warned me that I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 35. He also threatened that he’d answer the door with a shotgun on many occasions. I was more concerned that he might answer the phone with his infamous, “Hell-no?” and scare off anyone who might be calling. I encourage him to be on his best behavior whenever I had someone over. One time, he and mom had just returned home from the store and dad was putting his ‘Stetson’ aftershave away. For some reason he commented to my boyfriend that aftershave was nearly all alcohol. And asked him if he wanted a drink. He said, “I will, if you will.” And they did.
Dad didn’t drink, but always was eating something crazy. He had the stomach of a goat. Often times you could find him eating; pickled pigs feet, sardines, spicy-hot pickles, liver and onions, and other really disgusting foods that should have been thrown out. He would offer us large amounts of money if we would just try some of his foods. Later in life his stomach gave him fits. I can’t imagine why.Dad was an amazing baker. MMMMMMM. Just thinking of his treats makes me smile. He would jam pack cookies and brownies with anything and everything in the cupboard. He even brought me hot apple dumplings in the hospital after my little Nathan was born. As he aged to perfection, his stomach couldn’t handle dairy products, and he would make creative concoctions to satisfy his sweet tooth. I even found myself perusing the natural foods to find substitutes for milk, cheeses, sour cream and butter, just so he could eat some of his favorite dishes.
A day never went by without him buying a Big Gulp drink of Diet Pepsi. That stuff is nasty! I would only take a sip if I was dying of thirst. There were many times that dad would pull some cash from his pocket and ask me or my siblings to run to the corner store for something. The moment we came through the door, he would howl, “Where’s my change?” Of course we would return what was left, and he would add it to the large collection of nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies that weighed his pants down. I really think the only reason he wore a belt was because of all the change he toted around.
Summertime brought wonderful veggies from his garden. In the heat of the summer, he would get home from work and head out to his garden. Looking back on it now, he was a master. I can only dream of duplicating the harvest he created in our yard each year. I think his trick was fish fertilizer. His veggies would have taken first prize at any local fair!
I have so many wonderful memories of my dad. And every day I think of how lucky I was to have him in my life. He taught me so many things. I just love that guy!
5 comments:
awe! what sweet words! i can totally relate with the mustache thing. my dad shaved it ONCE in high school and he scared me when i turned around and saw him with a clean face. i told him his lips looked werid. i think he took it personally because he never shaved again. i also have been infatuated with my dads hands... you've motivated me more to write stories about my dad and my memories with him while they are still fresh in my mind. you are so lucky to have such a great dad! i'm happy you had such a tight relationship. and i love the pictures too!
i love your stories, they made me giggle and get teary too. how fortunate you both were, to have each other. truly treasures!
Kelli,
You make me cry. Dixie and I just lost our dad this past week. I share many of the same memories of my father. He was a rough and tough guy and it showed, but you didn't have to scratch the surface much to find a sweet little teddy bear underneath. Take care my friend.
Linda
Funky Junk Sister #2
Very Sweet.
...had me in tears too. i love hearing stories of clive. more than once i thought i was reading about dave! he plays some of the same tricks on the girls and i. i feel like i know clive a little better now. it's wonderful to hear your stories too along with dave and brent's.
thanks kel... and happy birthday clive!
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