My Sweet Daddy Did So Ride on the Pony Express!

My Sweet Daddy and me

Winter, 1963

I had an idyllic early childhood. I had no idea that we were poor, but I have come to know that we probably were. My every need was provided and I felt safe and secure in the love of my parents, my family and the people in our church. I remember watching Captain Kangaroo with my mother in the mornings after the boys went to school and I remember my Sweet Daddy rocking me to sleep after lunch for my nap. My Mother read Shakespeare’s sonnets to me, and introduced me to many other poets and authors who remain my friends to this day. We spent our days together with me following her around as she cooked and cleaned and waited for the best moment of the entire day...the moment My Sweet Daddy's car pulled into the drive and he was home! (Do I need to tell you that I'm the self-proclaimed Queen of Daddy's Girls?)

One memory that stands out, though, happened in Kindergarten. Actually, there are several distinct memories from that year. My Mother miscarried a baby 2 days before Christmas and that was very sad. A very sweet memory is that my grandparents, Neenie and Bobo, came and celebrated my birthday with us and came to my class with a cake and goody bags for everyone. There was a shiny, brand new dime in the bottom of each bag. My Bobo did that, I'm sure. He was always giving me dimes. That was long before goody bags were a normal occurrence. It was a stinking big deal at the end of the year…the only such party complete with grandparents that happened in kindergarten. We didn't say such things then, but that totally rocked!

The other memory is a bittersweet one. It happened as we were starting the big celebration of ‘The First Thanksgiving’. I went to kindergarten in the early 60s and it was the first group learning experience, aside from Sunday School, that any of us had ever had. Nobody had been to preschool or daycare or Mother’s Morning Out. This was the first time we had ever made pilgrim hats or turkeys from our hand outline. This was big-time very important stuff we were learning.

When Mrs. Clark called the class to circle and began to tell us that we were going to be learning about the Pilgrims and the Indians and the First Thanksgiving, I raised my little hand and said, “I know all about that, Mrs. Clark! My Sweet Daddy was there!!”

You can imagine how Mrs. Clark reacted. She assured me that My Sweet Daddy could not have possibly been there. This is the point where I got hysterical and they had to call my Mother to come and get me. I was sobbing, beyond comfort. My teacher was the seat of all authority in the whole universe. My Sweet Daddy was the center of my very existence! What was a 5 year old to do with such contradictions?

I should backtrack and tell you that My Sweet Daddy (remember, the one who wanted a baby girl to name Mollianne?) was a History major in college. I followed in his footsteps somewhat with a minor in History, but I studied European History where he studied American History. Daddy is also quite a storyteller. He used to tell me story after story. Like “When George Washington and I cut down the Cherry Tree” and “When Abe Lincoln and I split rails” and my personal favorite, “How I escaped the Alamo after Davy Crockett was killed”. Of course, you may have already figured out that two of the stories I cut my teeth on were, “How I helped Miles Standish cross the Atlantic on the Mayflower” and “When Squanto taught me to plant corn in Plymouth.”

I really thought I knew all about it because my Sweet Daddy had been there. And he told me ALL about it! The cold winter. Plymouth Rock. The starvation. The danger of the New World. The gratitude for harvest. I was always spellbound when he told those stories. I knew every one of them, practically word for word. My mother explained to Mrs. Clark how I might have come to believe that My Sweet Daddy was present for the First Thanksgiving. That night, My Sweet Daddy took me in his arms and comforted me and told me that those were just stories. “Sweet Daddy, you didn’t really help Johnny Appleseed plant trees?” “No, Mollianne, it was just a story.” That took me awhile to digest, I’m sure.

I’m quite certain that my parents were amazed that I believed those stories to be gospel truth. My Sweet Daddy was just passing the time and teaching us a little American History. The boys knew that. Little Mollianne did not. From My Sweet Daddy’s mouth to God’s Ear, you know?!

I never believed in Santa Claus (that is one story I never heard at home…and that is a blog post for another day), but I imagine that at the tender age of 5 when I learned that My Sweet Daddy didn’t really celebrate the First Thanksgiving with the Pilgrims and Indians or ride the Pony Express I shared some of the same emotions as children who learn that Santa doesn’t really bring their presents.

From that day on, I was a bit wiser…but I’m not sure I was ever a happier Mollianne than the little girl who just knew that her Sweet Daddy went west with Lewis and Clark to explore the Pacific Northwest. The one thing I do know for sure and have known all my life, stories or not, my Sweet Daddy is and always has been my hero. He is constant and strong and brave and true and loyal and he loves me with an absolute unconditional love.

An idyllic childhood...yes, I think I had one. I was safe, loved and protected. And I had a Sweet Daddy who could always pull out a story to pass the time. I can't think of anything better! Can you?

~Mollianne