Yes, Sir, Daddy Darling, Sir... Salute Twice (for my dad)

YES, SIR, DADDY DARLING, SIR...SALUTE TWICE
By Minnette Meador 

It was a bright September morning in 1959, the kind that sparked apples on your cheeks, when Dad and I walked across the school parking lot. The brick building loomed gargantuan in front of us, the pillared vestibule filled to the brim with noisy kids. Some were confident, smug, smacking each other on the shoulders as if to say “this is my place”, while others bounced against their parent’s hands in fidgety excitement. I was one of those.  

The man holding my hand was tall, dark, with abundant strands of wavy black hair (always perfectly groomed), and shining black eyes. I glared at the other kindergartners when we approached, but then tucked myself behind his leg when they glared back.  

There was never a more comforting place than behind that leg. My little arms reached around the knee and held on for life. His dark uniform smelled of cigarettes and dry cleaning solution. I loved that smell. 

This was my hero, my dad. In his rowdy youth, Roland Charles Smith II (Smitty to his friends, “sir” to everyone else) had been barn storming in Illinois when World War II broke out and the United States Army Air Corp “recruited” him to train eighteen year olds to fly. He crashed a plane and ended up in the base hospital where Hap, the beautiful red-headed editor for the camp paper, interviewed him and fell in love. They were married soon thereafter. This was one of my favorite stories and I always thought of it when I was scared. 

 It now danced in the back of my head as I watched the gangling group of children and parents begin to file into the building. Muted chatter turned to deafening echoes against the long corridors and green linoleum floors. Standing like cheerful soldiers, the teachers stood at attention outside their respective forts, each armed with a clipboard, pencil, whistle, and deep reserves of patience. I was scared down to my toenails. Mom had to work that morning or she would have been there. I was glad it was Dad instead. 

My mother, a logical, pragmatic individual, always took the high road on any decision; "Buck up, Missy…it’s not the end of the world." My father, on the other hand, was a human contradiction, and therefore never boring. He had a lightning temper that fizzled almost as quickly as it left his mouth, a supersonic wit, and an anger-edged compassion that was second to none. Adversely, however, he also nurtured creativity, awarded intelligent solutions with high praise, but more importantly, could take the pain out of anything with a smile. Dad was a dichotomy of the first order. 

He must have felt my hand trembling, because he said, “It’s going to be great, duchess. You’ll love school.”  

I tightened my lips against the title as I always did and managed a feeble shrug. Dad had pet names for four out of the five of us (my oldest brother was always just Mike); my sister was princess; my second oldest brother was buddy; I was duchess; and my little brother (poor soul) was dink. Dad used to tell everyone that he had wanted to name him Whiskey since he was the fifth, but was overruled by my mother.  

He squeezed my hand and herded me toward a waiting lady who was both young and beautiful. Glancing down the line of teachers, I was glad I got the prettiest one. 

She flashed white teeth at me and the sparkle in her eyes looked fresh and genuine. It would fade through the year, but for now it was opening day bright. 

“Good morning,” she said to my dad, obviously impressed with the Major’s dapper uniform and the smell of Old Spice that followed him everywhere. “I’m Mrs. Anderson.” She winked at me. “And this is…?”  

Dad squeezed my hand tight a second, which sent me back behind his leg to peek past the sharply creased dark green wool. In command as always, he snaked a hand behind him and pulled me back to the front, securely resting his hands on my shoulders to keep me there. 

“Don’t be rude, Mimi. What do you say?” 

“Sorry,” I mumbled.  

Dad patiently cleared his throat. “Sorry, what?” 

I glanced up at the radiant young woman’s face and found a measure of comfort there. “Sorry, ma’am.” 

“This is Mimi,” my father told her, giving my shoulders a pat.  

Mrs. Anderson scanned her clipboard and placed a quick check mark.  

“Here she is.”  

She shot another of those admiring grins in my dad’s direction and a pang of jealousy flushed my face. I liked her a little less.  

With a graceful whoosh of her starched cotton skirt, she moved aside and motioned to a room full of wonders. There were toys stacked in big red bins, beautiful letters, number, and pictures on the wall, and scampering boys and girls everywhere, not to mention several huge un-shuttered windows revealing the blustery fall weather and a grove of hazelnut trees outside. 

I completely forgave her transgression when she said, “Make yourself at home, Mimi. In a little bit we’ll have a story and some singing.” That was good enough for me. 

Dad turned me around and did something rare for him; he hunkered down so we were eye to eye. “I’ve got to go to the base, duchess, but Mom will be off work in time to pick you up at three. I want you to behave Mrs. Anderson and the rest of the teachers here. Yes?” 

I put my hands behind my back, sent a suspicious look through the classroom door, and then to my feet. “Yes.” 

Dad pulled back his head. “Yes what?” His voice had that mock sternness I had learned to love from before I could remember. 

“Yes, sir, daddy darling, sir!” I said, then lifted my tiny hand and saluted twice. He gave me a quick hug and hustled me toward the door. 

That was the defining phrase of our relationship for the twenty-two years I knew him. Since he was a commanding officer in the National Guard, we weren’t exactly military, but we weren’t exactly civilians either. Most times he was in our lives full time except for one weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. The only thing that ever pulled him away from us was a major disaster, a search and rescue mission…or any of a number of parties he and his pilot buddies would attend at the officers’ club on the base. My father was a very popular fellow. 

He loved fishing, highly polish brass, electroplating, off-color jokes, and exotic birds (he once had four Java Temple Birds named Ring, A, Ding, and Ding). But most of all, he loved poker. So much so, that on allowance day, he would gather my little brother and me together and produce a worn deck of cards and two shiny quarters. 

“Okay, kids. Here’s your allowance.” 

We would “ooo” and “awe,” dreaming about all the penny candy we could buy with our riches, when Dad would begin to mesmerize us with fancy card handling. He’d sit at the dinner table and shuffle the cards like a pro. We’d take our seats next to him and wondered again how this wonderful man could be our father, ignoring the echo of my mother’s admonishing voice in the background saying, “Smitty…?” 

He would lift one hand to her, still shuffling the cards in the other, and say jovially, “Hap, it’s just penny ante. You want to join in?” 

Mom scowled at him and went back to her book and cigarette.   

“So, here’s how you play,” he said to us. “There are thirteen cards in each suit and several hands, each worth a little more…” And so it would begin.  

Those first few times we would win double and sometimes triple our allowances. Those were some of the best stomach aches I ever had. Later, for some reason, I didn’t win as much; in fact I’d lose more and more each time. At least until I got older, then Dad had to work for my allowance. 

Standing in the classroom doorway, I reached into my pocket and felt the reassuring handful of candy sitting there; candy I had bought with that weekend’s winnings. Mom would have killed me if she knew, but Dad didn’t say a word when he helped me with my coat that morning, although I know he saw them. 

The children’s voices shrieked down the hall covering up Dad’s retreating footsteps as he left me to fend for myself. I sort of half stumbled, half sauntered into class, and watched to make sure no one was staring at me. They all were.  

After hanging up my coat, I smoothed my brand new brown and white plaid school dress into place, found a toy, and sat down at one of the little desks at the back to examine it without interest.  

A few minutes later, the teacher came into the classroom escorting three late arrivals, whispered to them to find a seat, and then stood before the class.  

“Welcome,” she said, printing something on the blackboard. “I’m Mrs. Anderson and this is how I spell my name. Later, we’ll practice spelling your names.” The screech of the choke sent my ears buzzing, but I was so excited, it didn’t bother me at all. 

She read the promised story, the beginnings of The Wizard of Oz, and began to teach us a new song about winter, which I intoned at the top of my lungs, pretending I already knew it, making up words that sounded vaguely like the lyrics. 

We then sat in a circle on the floor and Mrs. Anderson said, “All right, children, we’re going to see how well you can count. How many of you can count to twenty?” 

I shot my hand up as high as it would go amidst the chatter of excited hopefuls. The teacher flicked her finger toward me and said, “All right, Mimi, you go first.” 

Bringing myself to my full two foot sitting height, I proudly cleared my throat and recited, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, jack, queen, king.” 

Everything got quiet.  

Teacher’s face went blank.  

The clock ticked five times. 

Then all at once, the children let out a roar of laughter. 

I sat there confused. I must have done well if they were all so excited. I bathed in the glory of my success. The teacher lifted one side of her mouth and moved onto the next child. 

That night my mother and father received a phone call.  

The next thing I knew, they both sat me down and explained that cards were not supposed to be used for counting, and they never wanted me to do it again. I wasn’t exactly sure what I wasn’t supposed to do, but I promised them wholeheartedly I wouldn’t. 

I’ll never forget the look of disapproval on my mother’s face squarely aimed at my poor father, who lifted the newspaper higher, and gave me a surreptitious wink from behind the print as he stoked his pipe. He taught me to count properly the very next day. 

Dad loved me unconditionally, saw me through the best and worst of it, sparked my irreverent soul, and set fire to my imagination with gusto. And to this day, although he’s been gone these thirty-two years, I still say… 

Yes, sir, daddy darling, sir!  

And mean it. 

(Salute twice).