February, Black history month, Super Bowl Sunday, reminders of the dull, now tolerable pain of my grief. My father made me think in a way that no other man ever has or will. I miss having his full attention, hearing his wisdom. He listened, which made me know I was special, loved, and appreciated. It was like the creator sent him just to be my father. He is the expert responsible for taking care of the fireplace at his other family house, but he is gone now the last day I spoke to him.
After he died, she exclaimed “The great Chuck Kelly”. I did not understand or care what she meant. The fallacy of greatness was all in her mind. He was a man with hopes, dreams, failings and flaws. Respected by some, hated by other, jealous of what they perceived as success. Observers don’t know how much you give up when you make a contract with the devil.
Now, sixteen years later, I see him in my mind’s eye shuffle the creosote while the fireplace screen was open. I no longer break down into uncontrollable tears when I think of his memory. When he tended the fire, it was as if he heard the choir song, accompanied by the periodic drum crackle as the logs burned. The flames red, yellow, orange, blue-black danced to the song only the fireplace, and Daddy .
Could not hear the song of the fire but felt rhythm and warmth as it moved upward, filling the room. He would take hours to select logs in the backyard. Speaking aloud said “too much moisture will alter flame of fire as he put some logs aside. He was not perfect, never apologetic for his beliefs, nor a hypocrite. Black man got no place in the army. When I asked why he served as military police. He said, I don’t want my grandson going into the military. I always suspected his experiences in the military, melancholy sad moods, rooted in his alcohol addiction.
Are you going to watch the football game? “I care nothing about that.” His grimace further confirmed his lack of interest in Super Bowl Sunday football game. When I was five years old, he called me to change the channel on the black and white television set. I recall thinking about how he watched baseball games on Sundays. Looking forward to getting that smile. Once I brought cigarettes, a book of matches, or a can of beer. I always enjoyed being around him, serving him. Never will I know why I sensed weakness, vulnerableness which made me afraid for him.
Gingerly, he used the fireplace poker to push the log into the position he wanted. It reminded me of how he tended to me.
The logs floor in the fireplace he moved as if he heard the melodious needs of the fire. Father’s insight into logs which blocked my thinking he would move like logs in the fireplace. He understood my emotional sensitivity predicted the pain I would experience. He predicted that my younger sister would beat me.
You will learn to let go of things that you don’t have control over. He said to me. I had unrealistic expectations of people and their actions. There was a wide full tooth smile. You always fight for the underdog, he said. He neither condemned nor condoned my feelings.
Daddy only used the fireplace tongs when amber flames came out past the closed screen. When a log fell out-of-place away, a potentially unsafe fire could start. He choreographed the dance floor of logs flames, beautiful, and all was in control again.
When my heart fire was dying, I talked to him. His opener was always “everything is going to be alright.” I seldom agreed with his famous statement. Our talks positioned me in a mental place, supplying me with the oxygen I needed. In the same manner, he moved the logs in the fireplace so they, too, received oxygen fuel for the fire. Perhaps it was as children we both suffered with asthma. We both respected the relationship of life, breathing, and oxygen.
Tending the fireplace, he was never the buyer, always the mediator. When he stoked the fire, the warm air moved around the room. The soft flames made the perfect medium for a nap. Many conversations insights shared in various settings, but one’s by the fireplace remain vivid in my mind and heart to this day.
Why are you interested in buying property? Land is a legacy that never loses value, so it serves as an opportunity, he said. I resented the interruption of my time with him. People talking about articles they wanted to place in the Citizen newspaper. I asked arrogantly. Why do you let any old body to submit stories in your newspaper? He responded, every story deserves to be heard. It is the only way to protect freedom of speech.
“America’s most progressive community newspaper.” The publication became the voice of the African American communities in Benton Harbor, Highland Park and Detroit.
Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash
Sixteen years later I miss him so, the pain is dull, but never completely gone. He no longer tens the fireplace. But I will always remember and appreciate how he tended my flames, nightmares, fears, hopes, dreams, and disappointments. Often, he spoke of opportunities and possibilities. Man, enough to verbalize regret at neglecting deserting my sisters and my mother. I blamed the white woman, never him. I did not need any validation, wisdom, or acceptance from her.
I did not understand until 10 years ago what he meant. When the ashes settled, and they buried him, I came to terms he made no provision for a legacy for his first family and children. If he meant to, my sisters and their mother never made us aware of or hinted that we, the first children, protected under marriage, were entitled to or going to be any part of his legacy aside from the mention in the obituary.
The other family sold the paper. No comment was all that I was told. The entitled race got the material things. I hope they have some happiness.
Daddy, thank you for tending my fireplace flames. No regrets would not change a thing. I wish other daughters had or have fathers that tend their fireplace the way you did.