Velveeta & Chessy Cat Grins: A Nod to My Dad

Happy Father’s Day to the first man that loved me.

My dad somehow managed to provide for a family of 7 and still be the calm, patient voice at dinner, though we called it “supper” back then. Insistent on a prayer first, a prayer after, and then a Bible Story, we never felt the stress of his day at Caterpillar, though hindsight, I’m sure the demands at work were massive and he was making a very conscious choice to create a separation. He valued dinner time in a way that almost seems foreign now, as if the phone rang, he’d literally answer it with something like, “It’s supper time at the Rocke house…what’s so important that you’re calling at 6 pm?”

He taught me how to drive a stick shift uphill on our gravel road, Rural Route 1. But I couldn’t even get out of our rock driveway without listening to the entire workings of an engine and practicing the clutch. Talk about patience with a 15 year old who just wanted to drive already.

My mom cooked during the week, but Sunday morning breakfast was all dad. He always made scrambled eggs in a large cast iron skillet. Any leftover proteins and veggies from the week got thrown in, and as he knew I hated green peppers, he’d puree them first and then mix them in. I used to think that was so mean, because if they were big pieces I could just pick them out. As an adult, I think it’s a proper love gesture. He’d top the eggs with 2 1/2″ squares of thinly sliced Velveeta cheese, which helped determine portion sizes. Though I know now that it’s “processed cheese food,” it’s still one of my favorite nostalgic, guilty food pleasures.

As the youngest, I sometimes think I got the best of my dad. He retired from Cat when I was in college, and actually came to campus at Millikin, slept on the floor and took me to my favorite spot back then–Texas Roadhouse. Having dinner alone with him (especially as a poor college kid) is a memory I’ll always treasure. I know this pic is breakfast and not Roadhouse but I couldn’t find that one… same year, though.

I spent my college summers back on the farm, working through laundry lists of to-dos that were never complete come August, but that wasn’t the point. I knew I would move away after college, and was glad to have the time with both my parents to work on the garden, repaint the fences, and have an early dinner together before I scooted off to my waitress job at “The Homestead” in town.

As fate would have it, I got to tag along with my parents to Atlanta on a business trip for dad, not realizing that the city would soon become my new home where I’d meet my husband and spend the majority of my adult years.

After I moved to Atlanta, my first visit home required me to bring Oscar, my kitty-cat companion, in tow. Dad pretty much hated cats in my childhood, as there were a million of them, and every winter they procreated and then cuddled up next to the porch door and were just a pain underfoot when he’d open the front door. But when I showed up with Oscar, he not only let me bring him in the house, but I have evidence of dad on the couch with my little furball. That was the first (and last?) time there was an animal in the house, (at least a live one).

He has always called me “Jewler,” loved me through some tough choices that were hard for him, and while I’m super close to my mom, I’ll always be a “Daddy’s Girl.” There’s a million more stories and things I love about my dad, but as the ugly tears are starting, I’ll wrap up with my favorite picture of us–this was in preparation to meet my sister’s fiance and we thought it’d be funny to wear our overalls with a gun/holster. Lol. I love his “chessy cat grin” (as he calls it) in this photo.

Love you, dad. Thanks for your wisdom, unconditional love, and really bad jokes.