“The world is shaped by two things – stories told and the memories they leave behind.”
-Vera Nazarian
My dad, Sonny, was a joyful man. At times. When I rewind and attempt to find photos where he’s smiling, though, I’m at a loss. When life was good, he was typically behind the camera capturing the glorious combo of madness, mayhem and laughter that typified sunlit days. I remember him being there for those moments, but there’s little evidence of him as a participant in the action. I think I know why.
My dad was a “watcher” throughout his life – including as a tyke where he’d sit alone, taking in world around him, with a wistful countenance. An example? I love this photo of serious Sonny at his grandparents’ house, relaxing in a chair handmade by his grandpa:
I asked him about it once and he said he figured he was two or three years old at the time, enjoying his perch as he watched grandma hang laundry on the line. Closing his eyes as he flew back to recover the memory, he smiled and said he loved the combination of fresh scents: grandma’s laundry soap and freshly mown grass. And the view? Hypnotic as he watched, mesmerized by the ripple of sheets and towels dancing in the breeze. He said it coaxed him into slumber – every time. Like so many high energy youngsters, nap time was a curse, and he had a reputation for being a hellion when it was time for a lie-down. But watching grandma’s laundry from a cozy chair? Sleep inducing!
If you look closely, you can detect a toddler-sized chew toy (choke hazard!) in his mouth, which was really just a twig he’d wrestled from the stick-like chair. A grande-sized toothpick for a tiny little man.
When we talked about the photo, he chuckled about the chair being his first “Lazy-Boy” and his stick? The first in a long line of beloved toothpicks. When he stopped smoking at age 45 after a heart attack, he swapped cigarettes for toothpicks to satisfy his oral fixation. “I was still the little guy who chewed on twigs from a chair”, he said.
My dad was a thinker, a watcher a contemplative soul, with or without his toothpick. As a child I watched him observe others, choosing very selectively when to step in and offer assistance and when to look away.
I understood his watchfulness. I was like that, too, from an early age. It was safer on the sidelines and for those of us who lean toward contemplation before action, my dad demonstrated thoughtfulness and awareness. Traits I try to possess. Remnants of him, within.
In this week’s Heart of the Matter podcast, Wynne and I continue our storytelling adventures as I share a vignette about my dad and his big, beautiful heart.
Loving the ones who are different isn’t a pithy phrase or a lofty intention. It’s one of the lessons I learned from my dad as I saw him advocate for and champion those who were maligned, neglected, or ostracized in life, long before my sister Lisa arrived as a vulnerable baby with multiple disabilities. If you were in his orbit or sphere of influence as a human in need, my dad, Sonny was right there. Demonstrating the goodness of inclusion before it became an overused term.
I hope you’ll take a few minutes to listen as I share a story about my dad and his “brother from another mother”, his dear friend Slats who loved my dad almost as much as I did.
Vicki ❤
Search (and subscribe!) for Sharing the Heart of the Matter on Apple, Amazon, Spotify or Pocket Casts OR Listen to on Anchor Episode 67: Love the Ones Who Are Different with Vicki and Wynne
Transcript for Episode 67 of the podcast
Episode 67: Love the Ones Who Are Different with Vicki and Wynne on Anchor
Wynne’s personal blog: Surprised by Joy
Vicki’s recently released book: Surviving Sue
Wynne’s book about her beloved father: Finding My Father’s Faith
Victoria Ponders 
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