Dad was a man of few words, but his actions always said it all | Opinion

This is an excerpt from a one-woman play, “A Man of Few Words,” that is being presented as part of “Dear Dad — An Exploration of Fatherhood.” Fantasy Theatre Factory’s festival, which features dramatic readings of 12 monologues written by playwrights from across the country, will premier 2 p.m. Saturday, June 19, at the Sandrell Rivers Theater, 6103 NW Seventh Ave., Miami. Starting at 7 p.m. Sunday, June 20, the show will be available free online through July 20. Go to FTF’s YouTube Channel or Facebook page. For more information, go to ftfshows.com.

NANCY, a woman in her 50s

It seems almost — unnatural — to even attempt to come up with words to describe my father.

(Smiles. Laughs very slightly.)

Words. Not only are there none that could even come close to doing him justice, but my father and words were as unrelated to each other as he and I were --- biologically, I mean.

(Growing thoughtful)

Words imply talking. Conversation. Maybe even chitchat. My dad sure didn’t have much use for any of those things. Apparently he didn’t need them as much as some people do. Dad was a man of action. In fact, I never met a man who got more things done. Big things that could change the entire outcome of a person’s life. He certainly changed my world, and he didn’t need words to do it.

I was 5 days old when I was adopted. It was entirely my father’s idea. In fact, as odd as it seems, he didn’t even include my adoptive mother in a discussion about it. She first learned Dad was thinking of adoption on the day his attorney phoned to say there was a baby available in Charleston and that they needed to go immediately to pick up the child. I guess my dad didn’t see the point in talking about something before it happened.

My parents jumped in the car and drove four hours to Charleston. My dad hadn’t even bothered to ask the attorney if they were getting a boy or a girl. Why would he? Dad wasn’t the type to waste words on something that made no difference to him. I was a baby, and that was all that mattered. They picked me up, my father drove around the unfamiliar city until he found a place to buy bottles and formula for me, and then he drove the four hours back to my new home and new life.

(Remembering for a moment)

That was just the beginning of our going places together. My dad took me everywhere with him when I was little. He and I sat quietly in his business meetings, rode silently together on his noisy tractor and watched the “Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson” soundlessly, except for my dad’s laughter. He sat stoically beside me as we waited for my first roller-coaster ride, listening intently as I chattered nervously. Whenever I was sick, Dad would bring home my favorite sherbet and pull up a chair next to my bed to play a game of Chinese checkers. He didn’t need to waste words asking what I wanted or needed. He always just seemed to know.

Somehow he even managed to stay quiet when I was pushing the limits to the extreme with my teenage rebellious nonsense. Once, when I was 16 years old and there was a dangerous snowstorm, I defiantly decided I was going to go out and drive on the slippery roads to see my friend. Despite my mother’s pleadings with him to tell me I couldn’t go,

Dad just sat there in silence. I went in my bedroom, changed my clothes and stormed out the front door and to my car. That was as far as I got. I was shocked when I turned the key in the ignition and absolutely nothing happened. No matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t get my metallic blue Monza to start. Without saying a single word, Dad had simply gone out to my car, disconnected the battery and went back inside the warm house.

When I was 24, Dad came to visit me at my apartment, two weeks before my wedding. I was seriously questioning whether I was going to go through with it, but I felt like it was way too late to call the thing off. And I felt guilty about causing my dad to lose all the money he’d put down as a deposit on my big wedding. As soon as he arrived, I burst into tears, and ran to hug him.

My dad quickly asked, “What’s wrong? Did something happen to you?” I sobbed into his shoulder, “I don’t want to get married.” Without a second of hesitation and very matter-of-factly, Dad said, “Then don’t get married.”

(Beat)

And that was the end of that. No more discussion. And no wedding.

As great as Dad was, I became curious about my “other” family when I had children of my own. During one of our phone calls, I told my dad I decided to search for my birth family and had reached a dead end. He remained quiet and I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings. Once again, without saying a word, my dad took action by mailing me my original adoption papers, which he had kept all those years in his safe deposit box. Apparently, the court clerk had used white-out to hide the name of my birth mother on every page except one. By sending me those papers with the clerical error, my daddy made it possible for me to find my birth mother and the eight brothers and sisters I never knew I had.

My father had given me the gift of a family for a second time, exactly nine months before he unexpectedly passed away.

Dad may have been short on words — he wasn’t one to say, “I love you” — but he sure demonstrated it in everything he did. Sometimes I wonder what he would think about the fact that, twenty years after he was gone, I became a playwright — using words to convey things to my audience. He probably would’ve really liked the piece of advice frequently given to all writers: Show. Don’t Tell.

(smiles)

Yes, Daddy. And nobody showed it better than you.

END

Nancy Rose Ostinato is a Florida playwright.

This story was originally published June 19, 2021 at 6:00 AM.