20Daddy

 Daddy was born and raised in Tampa. During the Depression, he worked on a Lykes Brothers freighter, traveling to France, Spain, and Italy. It was there that his love for Spain—and for travel—took root. The Lykes family were friends of my great-grandfather, Charles Lafayette Knight, a prominent Tampa businessman. Daddy was named after him—the first grandchild to carry his name.

He was entirely self-taught, learning engineering and navigation on his own. The men in his family were self-made, choosing experience over university, unlike the women who went to college.. He had a sharp, curious mind and a natural sense of humor. He was fun to be with—exciting, always doing silly things that made me laugh. He had an evenness about him. I don’t ever remember seeing him angry.

He served in the Merchant Marine during World War II and was a lifetime member of the Scottish Rite of Freemasonry.

After the war, he worked for the Florida Road Department, helping build U.S. 19, and later worked for Cone Brothers Construction. When he took a job with Euwell Construction, we moved to Lakeland. I was in the middle of second grade and refused to go to my new school. Mother got me there on the second day.

After two years in Lakeland, his friend Bud McKethan invited him to help start a limestone mine in Brooksville. Florida Mine and Materials was born. Daddy worked hard, from “can’t see to can’t see,” seven days a week. With the exception of living in Freeport, Bahamas and a vacation house on Cudjoe Key, my parents remained in Brooksville for the rest of their lives.

When I was five, Caroline and I had our tonsils and adenoids removed at the same time. In preparation for surgery, I refused to take off my underpants—but afterwards, they were gone. When I came home from the hospital, Daddy had transformed the screened porch of our home, painting murals from Alice in Wonderland across the walls. It was magical.

Daddy was always fun to run errands with. When we were living in Tampa, on weekends he would take me to cigar-making garages in Ybor City. He loved cigars and speaking Spanish, calling me “pobresita”—“poor little girl”—which made the men laugh.

He loved projects, and whatever he did, he did fully and well.

Once, he made gunpowder by mixing saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. After lighting the fuse, we stood back and watched it explode, leaving a small hole in the sidewalk. My mother was not amused.

When we lived in Brooksville, he planted a half-acre garden. It overflowed with more food than we could eat, feeding our family and friends.

One of the more unforgettable projects involved baby wildcats he found in a bulldozed field. To Mother’s horror, he brought them home. They were kept inside at first, then moved to an outdoor pen. We eventually gave them to a wildlife rescue.

Daddy loved animals of all kinds. Mother told the story of a fox squirrel crossing the road in frount of the car. Daddy stopped the car, determined to catch it. He tried, the squirrel escaped—but not before biting him, “clear to the bone.”  Daddy needed stitches.

Daddy taught me how to pick up frogs and toads without getting peed on, how to find doodlebugs, spot gopher tortoises, and hold a chameleon while it changed color. I loved  all the little critters. Once, I placed a toad down Mother’s back while she was driving. She stayed calm, pulled the car over, and removed it. She simply told me it was dangerous and not to do it again.

Daddy also loved to cook—and he was good at it. He especially loved Spanish dishes like Spanish bean soup, black beans and rice, and caldo gallego. His food was so delicious he often made extra to share with friends, who frequently asked for his recipes. In our house, he handled the special meals when company came; Mother called herself the “short order cook,” and Daddy the gourmet.

He was musical and loved to play the organ. We had one at home. He played by ear, teaching himself, unable to read music. One Saturday night, when my friend and I were feeling sorry for ourselves because we didn’t have dates, he played “Are You Lonesome Tonight,” gently meeting us where we were.

He was kind and generous, attentive without being asked. After my freshman year at the University of Georgia, he bought me a brand-new Ford Mustang so I could travel between school and home on my own. It even had a horn that whinnied.

I loved that car—and lost it when Russell’s father sold it without asking me. Looking back, it was an omen of what was to come.

His love was steadfast, never wavering. He never got angry with me. He left most of the “heavy lifting” to Mother. He rarely gave advice, but there were two times he stepped in.

Once, when I was dating an older boy known for drinking, he sat us both down and told the boy he knew about his drinking—and that he didn’t want me drinking. That was fine with me; I wasn’t interested in drinking anyway. He also told me I was not to go to the boy’s aunt’s cabin in Bayport. This was not fine.

I went anyway. While we were there, we noticed a car pass slowly by. 

I was never confronted about going, but soon after, there was talk of sending me to boarding school in Georgia. My boyfriend lost interest and we quit dating.  The subject of boarding school quietly disappeared.

The second time Daddy gave me advice was when Russell and I met Mother and him in Valdosta to tell them we wanted to marry. Mother was excited, already planning the wedding. Daddy, more quietly, told me I didn’t really know what I was getting into. He was right. Looking back, I wish I had listened.

He didn’t raise his voice—

he raised gardens, roads, and me.

With steady hands and a quiet way,

he showed me how to see.

In painted walls and Sunday songs,

in engines, dust, and sky,

his love was never spoken loud—

it simply stood nearby.

And in the few words that he gave,

so gently, clear, and true,

I hear them still, like distant drums:

I only wanted good for you.