[title subtitle=”words and images Judy Harrington”][/title]
In May of 2018, Do South® published a tribute, written by Judy Harrington, for her mom, entitled A Scrap of Memory. Earlier this year, Judy submitted the following tribute for her dad. We are honored to publish it in his memory and in honor of Father’s Day.
I don’t know why I can’t forget the sound of dominos being shuffled across a wooden table top by Dad’s work-worn hands. Swishing, bumping clatters that indicated the challenge was on and I’d better step up my skills, if I hoped to compete. The nose-tingling fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg from his Old Spice cologne beneath the whirl of the ceiling fan. Maybe it had been splashed on a bit heavy some days, yet it was always a welcomed familiar scent from those childhood hugs that I’d never wish to forget.
The sparkle of brilliant blue eyes while he studied his next dazzling move. Which bone should he lay down? Which one should he hold to make more points later in the game? A tiny drumbeat echoed my dad’s mental counting process as he tapped the edge of a tile he considered to play. Sometimes it might take the rhythm of a few beats before he decided on his best move. “Give me a nickel or a dime,” his way of saying write down five or ten points on the score pad.
The sweet, lemony sip of satisfaction from a glass of iced tea while I waited and admired the man seated across from me. My hero who taught me that love and laughter were two of the most important things this world has to offer. This is just one memory of a summer’s day I shared with Dad at Crawford Healthcare and Rehabilitation, a nursing facility in Van Buren, Arkansas. I recall how our weekly domino matches never ceased to draw an audience of inquisitive residents. They crowded in close, all curious to see if today would be the day I’d win, or would my dad retain his championship title. For me, the winning aspect was never important, just being able to play another game with Dad was all that really mattered.
“Y’all pull up a chair,” he’d announce to the group. “You can watch me put another whoopin’ on to this daughter of mine.” I’d smile, knowing the whole time that he’d win. But I would still jokingly reply, “Yeah, yeah… we’ll just have to wait and see which one of us wins today’s match.”
Though it’s been over nine years since his passing, I can still feel the smooth, cool texture of the tiny rectangles beneath my fingertips. I still hear his soft chuckles because I placed the wrong tile down and he made ten, fifteen, or heaven forbid, thirty points off my mistake.
“Sis, I thought I taught you better than that,” he’d giggle while I marked down his score. The Domino King, as he was affectionately nicknamed, loved the game of strategy. It was one of the few things his Alzheimer’s disease could never destroy. He might not remember what he’d had for lunch fifteen minutes before, or even if he had eaten, but he could always remember his past years of mastery at the domino table.
I would give almost anything to spend another afternoon trying to outsmart him. Those hours were immeasurable and irreplaceable. Now, I like to amuse myself with the idea that one glorious day in heaven, I’ll sit across the table and play a rematch with him, maybe two or even three.
In my wondrous daydream I like to imagine that the dominos will be fashioned out of gold and set with precious jeweled dots. However, even if they were, their treasure would still be worthless compared to the smile I’m sure I’d see radiating from Dad’s face.
