Who is my father?

At 1206 Cookdale Trail, there is a man in a hospital bed. This man is bald, with an overgrown mustache that needs trimming. His face is gaunt, his cheeks sunken in. His arms are little more than bone and sinew with loose skin covering them. His belly is swollen, distended from the fluids building up in his abdomen. His strength has waned as the insidious disease called cancer has ravaged his body and he is now essentially confined to his bed, a catheter sapping his remaining dignity, little by little.

This man is not my father.

My father is Doug Williams. He is a deeply imperfect man, but I would like to share with you more about him, imperfections and all.

My father is an avid sportsman. He enjoys hunting, but his greatest passion is fishing. The man lives to fish--river, lake, ocean--you name it. He loves all of his brothers, but his brother Wyatt is the closest to him. One of his greatest enjoyments in life is his trips to Louisiana to go deep-sea fishing with Uncle Wyatt on his boat--first the Great Escape, then the Great Escape II. When I am faced with the sight of my father in his weakened state, barely able to lift his cup of water to his lips, it gives me comfort to remember my strong father on Uncle Wyatt's boat, fighting to bring in fish that weigh hundreds of pounds.

My father is strong.

My father taught me gun safety, and then he taught me to shoot. He took immense pride when he discovered that I could shoot very well, glowing as he called me "Holly Oakley" and bragging to others that I was a great shot.

My father is a hard worker. When I was two years old, my parents moved from Chattanooga to Cleveland because my father had been transferred from Sequoyah Nuclear Power Plant to Watts Bar. From the time I was two until he retired in 2002, my father made the two-hour round trip from Cleveland to Watts Bar every single day. He usually didn't make it to my after-school activities--cheerleading, recitals, pageants, choir concerts--because he was exhausted from the drive and the long workday. Outages were even worse--twelve-hour workdays, seven days a week, on top of the drive. But he did it. For us. When I needed braces, I got them. When I wanted to join my school's Model UN team and go to Chicago, then Washington, then back to Chicago, checks magically appeared in my hand. When I needed a new cheerleading uniform, I got it. When I turned sixteen, I got a car--not a new one, and not even a somewhat new one, but it was mine and I loved it. All those silly pageants--the clothes and dresses and the voice lessons--my daddy. When I gave up my college scholarship to come home because I missed my family and East Tennessee, Dad paid my tuition. When I had been married four years and needed a root canal and couldn't pay for it because I had medical insurance but not dental, he took care of it.

My dad is an amazing cook. He's not a "follow the recipe" kind of cook--he's a "dig around in the fridge, pull a bunch of crap out, throw it in the pot and come up with a masterpiece" kind of cook. Knowing that I have eaten his homemade biscuits and gravy for the last time is enough to bring me to tears. Christmas morning will never be the same without his huge breakfast feast after opening presents. Gumbo, fish, jambalaya, shrimp, hush puppies, homemade chicken noodle soup--these are some of his specialties. I wonder who will make me fish tails now. Dad always complained that it was such a pain to cut off the tails and fry them up, but he knew I loved them, so he did it--just for me. The last time he made me fish tails was this year in Destin. They were delicious, as always.

Many people don't know this, but my father has a wonderful singing voice. Listening to him sing Hank Williams' "Jambalaya" was always a pleasure. He loves old country music and listening to him belt out classics is wonderful.

My father can be an impatient and short-tempered man, and it has amused all five of us children to see how he has mellowed with age. Transgressions by the grandchildren that would have gotten us a whipping with the belt are met with a smile and a laugh by Papa. Yes, he was often too hard on us and he made many mistakes, but what parent hasn't? I've only been a mom for a little over three years and I've already made roughly 3.7 million mistakes in my tenure. Dad was not and is not a perfect parent--not by a mile--but he loves us deeply and that's what counts.

My dad is set in his ways. He has his own way of doing things and will not be swayed. For him, TV is the ultimate lazy pasttime, and old Westerns are a staple. There is nothing better, in his eyes, than a buffet-style restaurant, and he loves to eat at Ryan's. He has a "uniform," a certain way of eating (he eats late and never drinks anything with his meal), and a morning routine. He rarely sees fit to try new foods or drinks. He likes what he likes and that is that. He seems a bit naked without a ball cap on his head, and he has a massive collection of them (most of them having something to do with TVA). He knows our section of the Tennessee River like the back of his hand, and he relishes in the search for "Ol' Tobe," the biggest catfish in the river. People have even paid him, on occasion, to serve as a fishing guide and to teach them some of his tricks. He has had a mustache his entire adult life and looks awful without one (we know this because he messed up trimming it once and ended up having to shave it off. My sister freaked and wouldn't believe it was her daddy. We were so glad when it grew back--especially my mother, who said he had no upper lip and never wanted to kiss him like that again). He is the owner of the "Williams eyes," passed down to four of his five children. He is tall, and skinny, and has always had to wear a belt because he doesn't have enough of a butt to hold his pants up.

My dad hates cats with a passion and never wanted one, but he acquiesced to our wishes and then cried when he accidentally ran over my kitten.

My father was born near the end of World War II, while his father was still away fighting in the South Pacific, he was named for General MacArthur, and he was nearly a year old before my grandfather ever laid eyes on him.

My father is smart, funny, sarcastic, kind, and generous.

I write all of these things because I want you to know him, and I want my children to know him. But in the end, in order to know my daddy...you have to know my daddy.

I hate that my children will never truly know who their Papa is. It will be up to us to keep him alive for them. On the one hand, I am devastated that I have had only 29 years with him. But on the other hand...I had 29 years with him! How lucky am I, compared to those who never know their fathers?

Daddy, I love you, and I'm glad you were mine.