The Special Name I Called My Father

Mom told me the story so often that I am not sure what is actual memory versus images etched into my mind by her vivid description of the events. I struggled, just now, whether to use the word event, because there is nothing extraordinary about the scene that I am about to describe. I’m sure that this is a scene that plays out regularly in households with young children. Except, there is one oddity to my story that I still don’t know how to explain.

When I was a toddler, my father worked second shift as a photojournalist for one of the two regional newspapers. Like most homes with kids, ours was a busy place each morning. I was the youngest, so my siblings would get themselves ready for school. Mom would be busy packing lunches, preparing and serving breakfast, and generally making sure that everyone got off to a good start for the day. I guess that Dad was sleeping as this all took place. He worked until midnight and then would watch the rest of Johnny Carson before turning in.

Once my two brothers and my sister were off to school, it was just Mom and me. We would spend our morning running errands. The A & P at Cotswold shopping center was a regular stop. Cotswold was partly an indoor mall at that time. The A & P anchored the “East Mall” and the Harris Teeter was at the far end of the “West Mall” After grocery shopping at the A & P, we would walk through the West Mall  past Ernie’s Record Store, jewelry stores, the dry cleaners, and the beauty shop, all the while enjoying the cold AC and the clean smell of the indoor fountains.

The West mall was connected to the East mall by a store called Roses. Roses was sort of a mini-department store. We would usually linger here while Mom looked at clothes and I was allowed to roam the toy aisle. From there we would ramble through the East Mall and straight into the Harris Teeter grocery store. We did not shop at Harris Teeter. We walked straight through the only automatic doors I knew of at the time, into Harris Drug Store. Mom would pick up Dad’s blood pressure medicine from the friendly druggist, Dan Lemelin.

Then we would head home for lunch with Dad. Only I did not call him Dad. My siblings called him Dad. My mother called him Tom or Tommy. I had my own name for him and that is the oddity of my story.

After lunch, my father would get showered, dressed, and ready for work just like any other dad. He would kiss my mother good-bye and that was my cue that he was about to leave. I would not see him again until lunch the next day. I wonder if at that young age I thought that he might not return at all. At least, that is how I acted.  What followed became a daily occurrence. I was determined that he was not going to walk out the door. I’m sure that this happens all the time. Toddlers do anything they can to stop their parents from leaving for work.

First, I would scream his name, but not Tom, Tommy, or Dad. Not Daddy or Da-da. Not Pop or Poppy. I would scream out the only name I had called him since uttering my first words, “Ahh-beee!” I would begin to cry loudly and shout “Ah-be, Ah-be” over and over. I would wrap myself around his legs to try and prevent him from reaching our front door. He would attempt to shuffle, and I would slide down his legs and seat myself on his shoes. I would keep clinging and yelling “Ah-be” as I cried and fussed using every ounce of strength I could muster. I had to prevent him from walking out the door. Ah-be would speak in a calm voice. He would tell me that he would love to spend the day with me if he could. He had to go to work.  He had to go take pictures. The newspaper would not like it if he did not show up. I can picture my mother standing back, allowing this to go on just long enough for my father to see how much I loved him. She would have a content smile on her face as she carefully unwrapped me from Ah-be’s legs. He would tell me he loved me and that he would see me soon. He said I’ll bring a present home for you. And he would. Along with cameras, lenses, and film in the trunk of his VW Bug, he also kept a steady supply of small toys, gifts, and Chet Snow Realty lollipops. Every day I would get something from this stash.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped calling him Ah-be. He became Dad, just as he was to my siblings. My mother loved telling me about my special name for my father. She’d say, “We have no idea where you came up with that.” All I know, is that is who he was to me. He was Dad to my brothers and my sister, but he was Ah-be to me only. When Mom would re-tell this story, I could see how happy it made Dad to picture it all unfolding in his head and to be reminded of how I loved him in a special way that required that I call him by an entirely unique name.

From my adult perspective, Ah-be meant something more than father. It was a kind of sacred term of endearment. A type of endearment that means you never want to let go of this person. Ah-be is a loved one that you long for his company so deeply that you will do anything to stop him from walking out the door.

One year ago, my father walked out the ultimate door. He will not walk back through it with a gift in his hand for me.

I was on the phone with him just moments before he pushed the emergency button at Plantation Estates. By joking about not knowing how much longer he would be on this earth, he had gently prepared me for the shocking news that would follow. Dad was gone.

 Ah-be had gone to be with Mom. He missed her so much. As much as I would have wanted to throw my arms around his legs and plead with him not to leave, I would not have. He was ready to move on, hold my mother, and wait for us to join him.

It’s like we are on the A & P end of Cotswold Mall. Mom and Dad are on the Harris Drug side of Roses. My friend, Dan Lemelin, the friendly druggist, is with them.

 I wrote before about how Dad left us a note saying that he had no regrets, only happy moments. It has become a mantra that my siblings and I try to live by.  However, I wish that before I hung up the phone with him on April 21 last year, that I had called him Ah-be one more time.

I have faith that he knows that. I love you Ah-be. I will see you one day and this time I will bring a gift to you. Maybe a Chet Snow Realty lollipop. Those were pretty special.