First class memories of my yankee Dad

The first class upgrade was exactly what I needed as I boarded the plane Friday evening. Normally I'm the person clinching the armrests of my seat with my sweaty hands, as I intently stare out the window with my heart racing for fear of disaster. Often, I can't relax enough to read a book or even listen to my iPod.

Not last Friday.

As soon as I hit the large, soft, leather seat on the 737 Jet, my neck gave way, my head fell back and I was out.

Many of my loyal readers know I have been traveling back and forth to New York over the last couple of months to spend time with my father, who has advanced lung cancer.

A father-daughter relationship is one that's special, and I'm sure most daughters in my situation would be doing what I'm doing -- living two lives -- if their fathers were sick.

Some fathers are great because they tell their daughters they love them; they teach them how to play basketball, they talk to them about boys, they hold their hands, wipe their tears, and protect them from the big, bad world that awaits their little girl.

My relationship with my father was not exactly typical. He didn't go to my horse shows or ball games. He didn't talk to me about boys and he certainly didn't talk to any boys I brought home. He didn't hug me or tell me he loved me often and when I cried he didn't wipe my tears.

Still, to me, he was -- is -- a good father.

I never got mad at my father for not "being there" the way most fathers are there for their daughters. Sure, I guess I've been affected in some ways by his style of fatherhood, but I focus on the positive things I learned from my dad.

Some may criticize him for his lack of affection. Others might say you don't miss what you don't know.

I say, for whatever reason, I was able to understand my father in a way no one else could.

He wasn't at my horse shows ... so that I could have horses, a nice place to live, and a great education. A workaholic farmer, my father slept four or five hours a night -- and often worked the rest of the hours in a day -- so he could provide for his family. That is what he learned from his father, and that is what he thought was most important. Besides, he thought, mothers are the ones who are supposed to "raise" the children.

He didn't talk to me about boys and didn't talk to my boyfriends because none of them were ever good enough for me. Luckily for me, as soon as the boyfriend would leave or was out of the picture he'd celebrate by taking me out for a hot fudge sundae. To this day, we still bond over sundaes and milkshakes.

He didn't wipe my tears or hug me often because he wanted me to be tough -- maybe this was his way of preparing me for the big, bad world. I became pretty tough, and it didn't take a hug from my dad to cheer me up. All he had to do was look at me, wink and smile, and I felt better.

Most recently, when I broke down crying about his cancer spreading, he dropped me off at my mother's house and asked her to take care of me. He didn't know what to do or say.

When I got into an argument with one of his sisters last week and started crying he told me to suck it up and "forget about that crazy woman because she doesn't know what she's talking about."

He knows how to make me laugh, and lighten up.

It might not make sense to you, but my father's approach to parenting made sense to me, and I love him dearly for who he is.

So much so, that when I learned of his cancer a couple months ago I made a vow to myself to spend as much quality time with him as I could. I made three trips up there in April and May and we were still able to hang out together, eat breakfast, lunch and dinner together, visit his friends, ride around on the farm and have a little fun in between the chemotherapy and radiation-related trips to the hospital.

Now, sadly, things have changed. My last trip to New York was less a chance to spend quality time with him and more a chance to take care of him. The 230 pound, six-foot-two, strong as an ox man with a full head of overly thick hair has become thin, frail, bald and weak.

Rather than go out to eat, this time, he sat in his recliner, unable to speak due to laryngitis brought on by chemo, while I made him protein shakes, oatmeal and pasta with butter. Rather than visit friends, he slept most of the time while I watched him, remembering the good old days and asking God, "Why my father?"

On my last day there, while I was packing my suitcase to come back to Tennessee, he got up from his chair and walked over to the bottom of the stairs. "Sadie," he whispered. Surprisingly, I heard him. "Yes, dad," I said, expecting him to ask for a drink or a bowl of ice cream. "Do you want to go for a ride?" he asked.

I asked him where he wanted to go and he gave me one of his infamous smiles and whispered, "I don't care. Let's just get out of here and ride around the farm, look at the cows, and then I'll take you to get the best French fries you'll ever eat."

Holding back tears, I jumped in the truck as we shared a special couple of hours together. My father, who has only been to Tennessee to visit me a couple times in seven years, told me that his visits here were some of his happiest memories ever with me. I was pretty shocked to hear that and actually had to turn the rock 'n' roll radio station off and ask him to repeat what he had just said. He just smiled.

Then, though he probably didn't feel like it, he took me to our favorite diner, where we shared coconut shrimp and fries.

As he dropped me off at the airport (a first) he hugged me, told me he loved me, and drove away.

I don't know what the days ahead will hold, but when I got on that plane and sat back in my first class seat, I closed my eyes and dreamt of hot fudge sundaes, dairy cows, French fries, and a smile that has lit up my life.

Happy Father's Day.

-- Sadie Fowler is lifestyles editor at the Times-Gazette. She can be reached by e-mail at sfowler@t-g.com. Her column, Sadie Says, is scheduled to run every Sunday.