The Man I Called Daddy ~

He Raised Me Right (And a Little Wrong)

My Granddaddy was five foot six, maybe 140 pounds soaking wet, but you’d never have known it by the sound of him. Looking back now, he wasn’t much taller than I am now, give an inch or so — but nobody dared point that out. People just moved when he came through.

He had a strong German last name — Dunkelberger — but to everyone who knew him, loved him, or got cussed out by him, he was just “Dunk.”

The name fit. Short. Strong. Unmistakable.

Just Dunk.

He was an electrician and a welder by trade, but he could fix just about anything: fences, tractors, poker hands, broken hearts — though his own stayed a little cracked. His hands were rough and always occupied — one with a cigarette, the other with a bourbon and Coke at 4 p.m. on the dot… seven days a week. That wasn’t a habit. That was a law. I thought everybody drank at four o’clock, kind of like they have tea and biscuits in England. Grandaddy just had Ancient Age and Pall Malls.

When he wasn’t reading Lewis Grizzard, he’d cock his reading glasses sideways — one lens balanced right on the bridge of his nose — just long enough to eat. Then he’d be right back to reading. I used to get so tickled watching him eat because he loved mustard. Wanted it slathered on everything. And somehow, something about his nose hairs wiggling when he ate all that mustard, it made a high-pitched little whistling noise when he’d chew. And he’d close his eyes like he was eating the best thing in the world, although it was really just a fried egg sandwich drowned in mustard. Hilarious. And unforgettable. Even now, I can’t eat mustard without hearing that whistle and thinking of him.

Before he and Granny retired, they worked the 3-to-11 shift and kept hours that would confuse a rooster. Mornings — which started around lunch — were sacred. They each had their own bathroom, and each one had a coffee maker perched right there on the back of the commode. Yeah, I know. Sounds gross. But to them it was luxury…and convenience. They’d sit for hours in there every day, doors cracked open just enough to let the smoke roll down the hallway like a fog machine. Granny read her romance novels. Granddaddy read Louis Grizzard. I’m quite sure they both had permanent indentions around their butts from all that sitting.

Other little girls were reading Disney and singing along with Snow White.

I was reading Lewis Grizzard and listening to Jerry Clower.

Because Granddaddy was.

We read his books over and over again and could quote them like the Bible. That’s probably where my love of storytelling started. That, and all the ways Granddaddy made me believe I was somebody worth listening to.

When I was really little, my mama and daddy had split, and we spent a lot of time in my grandparents’ home. So in those early years I heard Mama call him “Daddy”… and I did, too. I didn’t know any different. He answered to it like it was his name.

Granny used to say he thought he birthed me himself. I believe her. He claimed me in a way that made me feel like I belonged to him and truly was his daughter. When I was three, he’d drive me down Slappey Drive — the main drag through town — and I’d rattle off every fast food restaurant like I was reciting poetry. He swore that made me a genius and no other child in the history of time was able to do that. Later, he taught me how to shuffle cards, mix a perfect bourbon drink, and win at poker. Then he really thought I was something. Started showing me off to his buddies like I was a child prodigy raised on red clay and hard liquor.

His friends would laugh when I’d holler, “Daddy!” across the Red Lobster and ask for another Shirley Temple.

They’d joke and wonder how he swung that deal.

I honestly don’t remember when I stopped calling him Daddy — but I’m betting it about broke his heart in two.

Because truth is, he was more of a daddy to me than anyone ever could’ve been.

Peas and carrots. Same stubborn streak, same birthday week.

And he made me tough. I mean bone-deep, no-cry tough. He’d pinch the nerve right at the top of my shoulder, near my neck — the one that paralyzes you for a second and makes your knees buckle. I’d cry when I was little, until I figured out crying just got me pinched again. He zapped me with the cattle prod more times than I care to confess, and he always made me touch the electric fence first to see if it was “hot” before we rolled under it. Most folks would probably call DFCS on him for that today. But I don’t see cruelty when I look back. I see training. He was raising me up strong… and it worked. I was mean as a snake and could take a hit — and that served me real well in junior high.

We played penny poker constantly. He loved cards — just like he loved bourbon — and the two of us would play for hours. I kept my pennies in a velvet Crown Royal bag. He taught me to never leave the table empty handed. He was so proud of my shuffle, my bluff, and my ability to hold my own at the table. I wasn’t just his granddaughter; I was his poker buddy, his barmaid, his little protégée.

Oh and the dirt roads we’d ride together and solve the world’s problems. I wish I could remember all of those deep talks, but he was the only one in the family that didn’t make stories “child friendly.” He shot it to me straight. It may have not been proper, but something in him wanted me to know things early on and not be surprised. I bet a lot of that came from his hard life coming up. I’m sure he wished someone had done the same for him.

Young Dunk. Already strong and carrying more than he should’ve had to.

I remember the time when I was probably 5th or 6th grade, I asked my mama about the birds and the bees. Her exact words were, “The bees will sting you and the birds will shit on you, so stay the hell away from both of them.” Although I really knew enough about the birds and bees for my curiosity, I really just wanted to see who would tell me the truth. No surprise it ended up being Granddaddy. It was one of those moments… “hop in the truck, Teener Reener.” We’d ride off and he’d educate me on the ways of the world and didn’t hold back a thing. I guess that’s why very little shocks me today.

We had a rhythm. A bond. Something not even his temper could shake.

Because Lord, did he have one. When he drank too much — and he did, often — things got loud and the dishes didn’t stand a chance. As big as his voice was before 4 p.m., oh, it got bigger much bigger after. It scared me, even though I knew it wasn’t about me. And when the storm was over, he’d cry. That part scared me too, maybe even more. I didn’t know what to do with his tears. I still don’t fully understand all the pain he carried, but I know now he wasn’t just mean — he was weak in some ways, and hurting. And pride kept him from ever saying it out loud.

When he lost his leg, it just about broke him. He dropped a lawnmower on his foot, and it never healed. Diabetes and vascular problems kept it from recovering, and eventually they had to amputate above the knee. He got a prosthetic, but refused to go to therapy. Said he didn’t need help. He’d just swing that leg out wide like a gate hinge and walk through that pasture. He still worked the farm, still drove, still tried to be the man he used to be — but I could tell it chipped away at him. Like he was losing pieces of himself he couldn’t get back.

There was a Black Angus bull that knew exactly how unsteady he was. I’m sure I gave that bull a sweet name once, but by the time I was old enough to remember, Granddaddy was calling him Son-of-a...something. That bull would wait until he saw a bucket in Granddaddy’s hand, then follow behind and headbutt him until he finally toppled. And Granddaddy would holler, cuss, and get back up swinging that leg like he was chasing off the devil himself.

Granddaddy thought Tammy Wynette was the prettiest thing walking — right behind Granny, of course. Said it with a wink every time. He saw Granny across the room at one of Aunt Mittie’s parties — she came in on another man’s arm — but Granddaddy married her only three months later. Didn’t have to think on it. He just knew she was his. And oh was she. After he passed, she never looked at another man. There would never be another, “Dunk.”

Granny loved Conway Twitty. I can still picture her in the kitchen, me sitting cross-legged on the floor against the cabinets while she cooked. Granddaddy would come in fresh from the shower — shirtless, hair slicked back, cigarette clamped between his teeth — and start singing “Hello Darlin’” to her like she was the only woman in the world. Even in their fifties, they acted like teenagers in love. They had plenty of hard times. But they had sweet ones, too — and I had a front-row seat to all of it.

He always wore the same thing: blue jeans and a pearl-snap plaid shirt. Only thing that changed was the shades of blue. The only time I ever saw him in a suit was for weddings — and even then, it was a Western cut and boots. Always cowboy boots. He never looked like anything but exactly who he was.

Make it stand out

Pall Mall in hand, Western suit, pressed collar and a whole lot of don’t-give-a-damn… must have been a wedding.

Saturday nights were sacred. We’d start with Lawrence Welk, move on to Hee-Haw, then crank up the records and dance. Granddaddy loved to dance. His favorite song with me was “The Most Beautiful Girl” by Charlie Rich. He’d sing it to me, twirl me around the living room, and for the rest of the evening, I was the center of the universe. I still know every word to every song to this day on that compilation album.

It’s no wonder I spent my life looking for a special something in a man, to make me feel as important as he made me feel. He set the bar way too high. It was unachievable for anyone else. He adored me in a way I don’t think anyone ever has since. It was certainly a different kind of love. And not a single man has ever goosed me with a cattle prod either.

He also passed down his love of mustard, milkshakes, Jerry Clower, and bourbon. I collect bottles now — not to drink like he did, but maybe to hold on to something that reminds me of him. He used to wake me up in the middle of the night just to make milkshakes. That was our little secret. It felt like rebellion and love all rolled into one spoonful of vanilla with extra chocolate syrup on top of that fudge ripple ice cream. It was ALWAYS fudge ripple. I still buy it to this day and think of midnight.

He let me start “driving” in kindergarten. Picked me up from school at noon, I’d change into my dance clothes in the back seat, and he’d say if I’d hurry, I could drive the rest of the way there. I had my hands on the wheel, but he was still in complete control. It was magic how he let me think I was driving that big ole truck with hips.

One Christmas, they each had the same idea — but didn’t tell the other. My mama was married to a man who owned a Chevrolet dealership at the time, and somehow Granddaddy and Granny both struck their own deals behind each other’s backs. That Christmas morning, Granny’s brand-new baby blue Monte Carlo with T-tops was parked out front, and Granddaddy’s red and white dually — that was the “truck with hips” — was hidden around back. They pulled at each other to come outside and “see the surprise,” only to realize they’d both pulled off the exact same surprise. I’ll never forget their faces. They both tried to out-love each other with a set of car keys — and laughed at how perfectly they’d pulled the same surprise.

They both made a huge gesture — the kind people don’t just do on a whim — and somehow, without even trying, they matched each other move for move.

Young love, old fire. Even then, they were already dancing to the same beat.

I love remembering the times we rode the riding lawnmower right across Slappey Drive — a major four-lane city road — just to ride through the drive-thru at Burger King. I got a Ju-Whoppy (Junior Whopper...I couldn’t say that mouthful). Granddaddy didn’t care what anybody thought and we got a lot of looks. He was doing what made me smile. And I think he loved it as much as I did.

He even took me dancing at the Victory Lounge when I was just a little thing. We'd go and dance pretty regularly until they told him he couldn't bring me anymore. He was genuinely bewildered. Didn’t occur to him that it might be inappropriate. He just thought, “She likes to dance. So we dance.” He’d have his bourbon ~ and I had my Shirley Temple.

Years later, I was in the Army, stationed in Germany, when I got the call that he was real sick. I flew home expecting the worst, but when I walked into that hospital room, he looked right at me and greeted me like normal. No confusion, no delirium like Mama had tried to prepare me for… telling me he was talking to his cows out the hospital window… and seeing things that weren’t there. But the second I walked in, something in him snapped into place. For a moment, he came back. And that’s the version of him I got to say goodbye to. I’m forever grateful for that. He passed not long after at only 59. Too much smoking, too much drinking, poor health — it all caught up to him. But in the time I had him, I got more love than most kids get in a lifetime. Not being able to come back for the funeral means I never really felt the end of it. To me, he’s just been gone a long time — not gone for good. I’m grateful for that, too.

Still won’t call it goodbye. He’s just around the next corner… probably with a Pall Mall and Grizzard book, saving me a seat.

I’ll never forget that he’s the one who taught me how to spit, fight, fish, slop hogs, and spot a bluff at the poker table.

But he also taught me how to laugh when it was inappropriate, how to dance like nobody's watching, and how to love something with your whole rough, wounded heart.

He was loud. Stubborn. Hard to handle.
He was full of problems.

But with me…
He bent.

Maybe loving me was how he healed the part of him that never got loved right.

He came from hard beginnings. His parents emigrated from Germany and settled on a farm in Nebraska. His mama died when he was just a little boy, and he and his three brothers were raised by their daddy and a new stepmother. It wasn’t easy. They grew up rough. Each of the boys joined a different branch of the military and scattered across the country, trying to build lives of their own. Granddaddy only stayed really close to one brother. Maybe the two of them clung together to become what they never really had: family. And maybe that’s what made him hold on to me so tight — to pour into me what he never got to receive.

He didn’t just raise me tough — he raised me like I was the best thing he ever did.

“Love covers a multitude of sins.”
— 1 Peter 4:8