Daddy Bush, circa late 1970s. Cayman Islands.
Whenever I hear the word eccentric, I think of my father. My father was my first exposure to eccentricity. Growing up I always knew he was a little different than most other men and I was happy and proud that he was unique; no other person in this world had a father quite just like him. His quirkiness, which was as much part of his personality as was his tender heart and unconditional love, were the things that brought me comfort and I could always rely on. He was my security blanket. When I was born, my father was already in his early 50s, so what I was blessed with was a man who already had made peace with his demons and was wise and comforting and patient and home.
I always recognized my father's exceptional soul, yet it wasn't until later in life that I came to fully appreciate it. He was whimsical and non-mainstream, never paying much attention to convention but instead following what his heart and soul desired and dictated. All that met him automatically loved him. His grandchildren never called him grandpa. To them - as he was to the rest of us - he was simply 'Daddy.'
Dad was color blind and I believe, because of this, is the reason why he loved bright, splashing colors and patterns. He loved to mish mosh them all together and create convoluted canvases of shock. Looking back he was a creative but instead of using the usual venues of expressing himself through canvas or word, he instead expressed it through real life. His wardrobe consisted of ties - bow ties only - that were filled with polka dots or some hemp-inspired pattern; his choice of clothes, on the colorful and bright side of the spectrum wheel. He did not own any of the black, white or muted colors convention dictated for a man his age; no white shirts nor black pants nor dress shoes were ever found in his wardrobe. His footwear consisted of cowboy boots; his hat - a Panama straw cowboy hat - that he lacquered to a beautiful sunset brown perfection.
And his love of color extended to our home as well. One day, tired of living in the same white cookie-cutter house that resembled every other house in the neighborhood, he decided to liven it up a bit. In the end, this bright Caribbean creation looked very much out of place in our subdued neighborhood in New York. My mother, who at times was forced to veto these sudden spurts of creativity to keep his oft-the-wall inspirations more in line with the customs of society, had him repaint the house the next day in one of the drab colors he so hated. It was at times like these that my father felt very much like a fish out of water gasping for what gave him life, yet being denied of it. He couldn't care less what the neighbors thought and often said people had no clue as to the beauty of color and life, yet deferred to my mother's wishes.
Helpful, active and hands-on, he'd help my mother with the cooking and chores every day. In a time where traditional marriages reigned, my parents' marriage was quite progressive and I thought all marriages were the same. Imagine my surprise when I married and learned my husband came from a very traditional household. Well, being a traditional wife did not come naturally nor easily to me and so, instead, I taught my beloved the ways of my tribe.
Not big on sports or television, the only time he ever sat down to watch anything on TV was when his favorite evangelist, Billy Graham, was on. And every night, when everything had been done and everyone was finally winding down for the night, he'd finally sit down and take out the only book I ever saw him read: The Holy Bible. It was this book that he read each night before going to bed.
My love of animals is imprinted into my DNA because of this man. They were his Achilles Heel. The picture above is the best representation of who he was. Animals flocked to him and that dog was one of the many strays that came to visit each day to be petted and loved and fed by him. We grew up in a zoo - chicks, chickens, cats, dogs, fish, turtles, birds, you name it. One day, Dad came home (I was about 11 years old at the time) with a present: he found an injured pigeon on his way home from work. He handed me this present and my job was to take care of it until it was strong enough to care for itself. Well, my mother quickly grabbed the present from my hands and immediately regifted it to Mother Nature and placed it in the yard. Actually, truth be told, I was relieved because I didn't have the slightest idea on how I was going to take care of this pigeon that kept having accidents on me.
But he also had a soft heart for children as well. Every Friday, my group of friends and I would run and greet him as soon as he turned the corner of our block and he'd laugh when we all hugged him; he would then take out his wallet and give each of us a dollar - our weekly allowance. Back then, you could get a lot of candy for one dollar. He would tell us to spend it wisely and by that he meant to go blow it all on sweets. He allowed us the freedom to be kids and never preached about curbing our sweet tooths; no, that unfortunate task was owned by our mothers. And every Friday, as sure as the sun would set, we'd sit and eat candy necklaces and get ourselves all sticky and gooey and eat licorice and soda and chips and twinkies and whatever we wanted; and, every Friday night, we'd have stomach aches from the sheer sugar abuse of it all. But we were happy.
Later in life when we finally had to make the painful decision to place him in a nursing home due to dementia, his uniqueness still came bubbling forth. He was a storyteller all of his life embellishing far-out stories out of real-life experiences. One day I went to visit him and commented on how tired he looked. His response? "Pft! You'd be tired too if you just walked back from Russia! Good G-D Almighty that's a cold place!" He had traveled the world seven times over and on the last days of his life, I am sure he visited each one of those countries again, bringing back some long-forgotten memory, believing he was indeed there.
Sadly, I knew when his time had come to an end. My father was a healthy individual all of his life never, thankfully, being burdened with any of the illnesses that attacks a person in old age, except dementia. His heart was strong, his blood pressure and cholesterol perfect, no cancer. This wonderful man, I am happy to say, was spared the discomforts of an aging life. But, because of the dementia, he did not seem to suspect my mother - the love of his life - had passed on; but, I believe, to this day, that his heart knew different. On one of the last days I went to visit him at the nursing home, he was lucid and I was able to have my father once again for one brief moment in time. He told me he was going 'home.' Tears quickly started streaming from my eyes because I knew what he meant. A spiritual man, he often spoke of the day he would finally be back home with the Lord. I gently grabbed his hands, unable to speak, words choking me at the center of my throat. "I miss your mama, Rebecca." he said. "She needs me. You girls are all grown with children of your own and you'll be fine. But it's time for me to go home. Your mama needs me and it's time for me to be with her again." Soon after that very brief conversation, he passed away in his sleep.
And to this, my father, the most unusual, loving, tender, free-spirited, didn't care what the world thought, man I ever met and loved. Eccentric extraordinaire. A man born before his time. A spirit and soul living unrestricted in his own world without rules.
My father. My heart. My hero. My source of strength and trust. The first man I ever loved. The man whom I've always used as the blueprint in finding happiness, belief and calmness in my life.
Perpetually....
Affectionally....
