In the Company of Women

I am one of four daughters, attended all girl, Catholic schools, have no idea how to change a tire and never experienced the bright stadium lights at a night-time football game. My father did put up a basketball hoop once in our driveway, short-lived when the basketball sailed through the glass pane of the garage door. Apart from the occasional basketball enthusiast who visited our home, that hoop stood neglected for years, a sad testament to the boys my mother never had.

My Scottish reared father never once expressed regret at not having a son. Rather, he reveled in his four daughters and life among them. He loved his girls. Though there were times we tried his patience.

A flashback materializes; my father’s screams from the shower after being cut by a worn down razor blade used on too many female teenage legs. Or equally maddening, the smell of nail polish remover. He hated the smell of nail polish remover.

Yet aside from the occasional inconvenience of living with five females, my father loved women, both young and old. I often pondered where this comfort among women came from, as my father himself was one of four boys. Perhaps missing growing up with a sister prompted him to love females even more, in his later life.

A close friend of mine once told me a story about an encounter between her mother and my father at a neighborhood cocktail party. Although half a century has passed, her mother, presently 85 years young, still remembers his words. “Libby Spivey, you are without question, the best looking woman in the room!” Though my father never came across as an operator or a flirt. His charm and affection was genuine and always from the heart.

During our bridal showers, all four of them, rather than fleeing for the afternoon as most men might, my father would delight in being part of the celebration. There he would sit center stage, in his recliner, newspaper in hand (a ploy to feign disinterest) among the squeals and chaos of thirty females. Every now and again as a new gift was unveiled he would lift his head up casually and remark “Ah what’s this one? Hold it up a little closer Kath…

In addition to my father there was in fact one other male in our family. A big, beautiful Irish wolfhound, brought back from a holiday in Ireland. I recall listening in on a now famous conversation in our family between my mother and the vet. “I need to bring Connell in to be spayed” The vet’s patient reply: “You mean neutered Mrs. Dickinson. Connell is a male dog.” My sister and I stared at each other, and then burst into laughter. We thought that something must have gotten lost in translation as my mother, Irish-born, often had her own interpretation of words. Looking back however, I think she simply believed Connell like the rest of us, was female. At least in theory.

I married and ironically, have two sons. The eldest and first born male in the family I named William, in honor of my father.  My husband has taught them the things his own father has taught him; how to throw a ball, fix a leaky kitchen faucet, use common tools for simple jobs, be kind and respectful. Work hard. My sons have followed in their grandfather’s footsteps. They too love women. Though they do not have a sister they have five female cousins whom they see frequently with the added bonus of always have a date for the prom if ever in need.

My wonderful father departed this world far too soon but his love and joy in raising four daughters is forever woven in his legacy. A few months after his death, my family welcomed an addition. A tiny, Toy Fox Terrier we named Anabel which in my father’s Scottish heritage translates as “beautiful grace.” She is female.

I have a feeling he would have loved her.