Hayter article for June 21, 2020

Father’s Day 

            Father’s Day snuck up on me this year. Over the last few weeks, I didn’t recognize a single advertisement urging me to buy something for Father’s Day. I’m not saying there weren’t any ads. I just didn’t recognize any. I don’t get out much.

            Even though my dad passed away in 1980, I often think about him, as I’m sure you do your father. Only, I doubt many of you call your dad, “Father.” To my knowledge, only “Jim Anderson” from “Father Knows Best” was greeted as “Father” by his kids. Personally, I just wouldn’t want a Father for a Dad.

            I actually called my dad, “Daddy”, until I started college. Then he became “Dad”. His name was Faris, an unusual spelling of an unusual name. I called Mom, “Mother” when I was young, but later referred to her by the Comanche name, “Cheecatchawa”, translated, “Stands with a Belt.” I only got three spankings from Faris, but probably three a week from Elsie. On occasion, three a day.

            Without question, Dad is easier for me to write about than Mom. That sounds weird because I was so much closer to Mom than Dad. While Mom screamed, spanked, and threatened us a lot, Dad never screamed or threatened. He never once told me what would happen if I disobeyed him. I just assumed he would kill me. A few months after Dad told Dennis and me not to leave our bicycles in the driveway, he came home from work to find  Dennis’ bike blocking his path to the garage.

            Well, when Dad came into the kitchen, he slapped his lunch box on the table and got after me for leaving my bicycle on the driveway. I was surprised he didn’t recognize that my bicycle was smaller and the fenders were different than Dennis’. I thought he should’ve known that. After all, he’s the one who put it together.

            Regardless, Dad had established that it was my bike and he was obviously not in a mood to be challenged. I was almost certain he was going to whip me, so I tried unsuccessfully to hold back my tears while apologizing and promising never to do it again, I don’t know if it was the tears that calmed him down or what, but he just said, “Okay,” and left it at that. In truth, it wasn’t the fear of getting whipped by dad that set me off, it was the realization that he was disappointed in me…  for something Dennis had done! I always wanted to please that man, but have little recollection of ever doing that.

            I should mention that Faris Hayter was an only child. When he was about six, his mother (Pearl) left. Apparently, she did not enjoy the thought of being poor. Who does? So, Dad was raised by his Dad with some help from his Dad’s old maid sister, Aunt Mary. I didn’t know what “old maid” meant, but I assumed it an honorable title because Aunt Mary was so sweet to us when we visited. During the Great Depression, Grandpa Ed was a sharecropper on an elderly widow’s farm. Dad was 12 at the beginning of the Depression and helped Grandpa on the farm.

            About six years later Dad met Elsie Teegarden, the finest woman in the history of womanhood. The two of them raised seven kids with whatever money dad could bring home. The only job Faris ever enjoyed was being the joint-owner of “390 Well Servicing Company”. His old business card is in a frame to my left. -- By the way, “390” was not only the name of the company but the company’s phone number. Pretty nifty, you ask me.

            I’ve told you a couple of times how Dad lost his share in the company as a result of a coin toss. A coin toss that caused Dad to bring the family to Texas, where their fifth child was born. (He’s the guy writing this thing.)  Along with his brief stint as a business owner, dad was a roughneck, a carpenter, and a craftsman. He was a Stillman in a refinery, up until the time he retired in ‘79. I wish I had known what a Still-man was, because in elementary school when the teacher asked me what my father did, I could’ve said, “My daddy, runs one of the units at a catalytic cracking structure that breaks up crude oil into its different petroleum products.” All I knew was that he worked on the “Cat-Cracker” at Crown Refinery.

            I’ve told the story several times about Dad making me a desk, but I think I’ll share the abbreviated portion right now. It was back in ’72 when I decided to quit my job as a forester and go back to college to get a degree in history so I could be a teacher. Some family members thought it stupid to give up a job as an outdoorsman just so I could stand in front of a bunch of kids in a classroom.

            Well, I had just started college at Sam Houston State, when Kay and I came back one weekend to Pasadena to see our parents. After hugging Mom and greeting Dad, I was escorted into the garage where I saw what Dad had built for me. He said, “Well, since you were going back to college, I thought you might need a desk.” While I was proud of the desk, I was especially proud that my returning to school had met with Dad’s approval. It was also the beginning of the time Dad and I would hug. That thought does bring tears to my eyes. 

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