By Beth Bro Howard
One day, when my husband was 40 years old, he came home from work, looking surprised and said, “I learned the most amazing thing today. When you smile at people, they smile back!”
Apparently, he had conducted his own little experiment while walking down the street. He would make eye contact and smile at people as they walked past him and he was delighted when they smiled back, which he noted, they usually did.
When he shared his discovery with me, I laughed and said, “I am so happy that you’ve learned this when you are 40. You could have lived your whole life and never known this.” At the same time, I realized that this was something I had always known. I’d learned it growing up with my father. My father had a wonderful, easy smile. His teeth were not perfect. He had an overbite, which accentuated the front teeth showing in his smile, offering a bigger grin.
My father didn’t just smile with his mouth, though. His whole face lit up. My father’s friend Paul Newman (not the actor) described my dad best in his memoir, when he wrote, “Kenny was a powerful and joyous force of nature that could not be stopped.” He was exactly that.
I grew up seeing my father bring that smile with him into every situation: from the breakfast table to a formal dinner; from greeting family and old friends to meeting total strangers. He used his smile liberally and especially when thanking someone for their help or for service rendered to him…even bad service.
Later in life, after heart by-pass surgery, the nurses at Evanston Hospital gifted my father a “Best Patient Award” and ribbon. I have no doubt that he won it with his smile, which may have been a rare sight for nurses in a post-surgical hospital setting.
I witnessed over and over again how my father’s smile put people at ease. I watched their faces brighten and felt its effect on my own face, too.
Even at the end of my father’s life, when he was very ill with leukemia and could not get out of bed, he would greet the day and me with a smile. The last thing he said to me was, “I hope to see you again.”
I said, “I hope so, too, Dad,” and we left each other with a smile.
After he died, the most frequent comment written in sympathy notes to our family was, “I will miss his smile.” We do, too.
Now, when someone mentions that they enjoy my smile, I sometimes say, but always think, “Thank you. It was a gift from my father.”
My Father’s Smile, photo © 2007 by Beth Bro Howard. All rights reserved.
What a great gift to your father’s memory. I can only hope to be remembered like this. As I read this I could feel the pride and pain in your words but more importantly, I could see his smile.
-R3
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I hope my Father met your Father when he passed on. Good, kind people should stick together. i hope your Father fishes 🙂
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Every time I look at the photo I’m reminded of a memory. The photo is slightly blurry like memories are, which is fitting for this piece. His teeth are crooked, like you say. But you didn’t mention how white they are, and I wonder if he came from farming stock, the kind of people who had meat and milk and grew strong teeth.
I spent yesterday with my father, and he seems more feeble each day. I bought him a blue-gray shirt, which he liked so much he said he’d wear it to church today. I’m sad right now, sad for my father and yours. Grateful, too.
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When I was in Georgia the last few weeks, I spent more time with my step-dad than I had in years. He drove me and my mother around to all the old places from when I grew up and they both talked about their memories. They had not seen each other in a long time either. And it filled my heart to be with them.
It felt good to connect with my step-dad again after so many years apart. He was open and kind and giving. And I remembered why I love him so much. This man was all I knew as Daddy from ages 2 to 12, the years that most shaped the person I would become. And today, back in Minnesota, I am missing him.
That’s the thing about opening your heart and letting people in. There is huge love. And also longing and loneliness and an empty spot when they are not there.
Your post captures your memories of your father which connects you every day to his love. And reading it reminds me of how universal love is for a parent. It’s something we all have in common.
The next time I see you smile, I’ll remember this post.
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Beth,
I thought of your other post when I read this one, and how you’ve given us another simple, practical way to live consciously during this time of war. Smile at people. Spread something good to strangers. I’ve been applying your other idea of making peace with myself, my family, and my community. It’s making a difference. Surprisingly big in my little corner.
I want to see the rest of your father’s face. The rest of the face that lit up.
I am white-knuckling it through Father’s Day, I live with a father on the opposite end of the spectrum as yours. I am trying (to the best of my ability) to be real and peaceful about it today. I can’t imagine the experience you had with your father, or ybonesy with hers, or QuoinMonkey with her step-father so recently visited. I don’t say these things for sympathy or to be buoyed up. It just is. It takes its place in making up the entire tapestry of my life. And somehow, it is all okay.
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anuvuestudio, I noticed you had a great post about your father at your site, Anuvue Studio. For others who might want to read it, here’s the link: Father’s Day.
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Teri, I was touched by the honesty and sadness in your comment. But more importantly, by your level of acceptance. How it is all part of your story.
For me, it has been that kind of acceptance that has led me to forgiveness. Sometimes years might pass between acceptance and forgiveness. But eventually, I get there. And somehow it has opened the doors I am walking through with my step-dad now. It amazes me to think about. Life is full of surprises. You just never know.
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R3, I think you will be remembered like this. Happy Father’s Day.
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Hello All– I’ve been at a baseball game today, celebrating with the father of my three sons and am touched to return and find so many thoughtful comments.
ybonesy: My Dad’s two front teeth are especially white because they are capped. When he was young, he was running around with a group of guys and someone yelled, “Last one in the swimming pool is a rotten egg!” My Dad was the first one in and there was no water in the pool.
My father’s paternal grandparents were farmers, but his parents were Christian missionaries in China when he was born. Later, his dad was a college president and his mom was a published author. My Dad was the least academic of the kids in his family. He used to tell us that he never liked school. But, he was a hard worker. He was a sucessful businessman, but it seemed to me that he always got more satisfaction from doing chores.
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R3: I’m glad that you could see his smile in the piece. That is the feeling left in my heart, too. If you smile a lot more than you frown, I think that you will be remembered this way, too. One of my favorite sympathy notes from a high school friend noted, “He was a fun dad.” He was.
anuvuestudio: great post at your site on your father (thanks for the link QM!) I loved your description of the triplets and your interactions with them. You made a nice transition from that story to your own father.
QuoinMonkey: Your writing is strong in reflecting on the bonds formed by love and relationship and the emptiness that comes with seperation. When my dad died, I was studying the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh. He teaches that our ancestors continue on in us. He says that if we can learn to really find and feel their presence, we will not suffer so much when they are gone. I have found it to be true and I continue to practice with this teaching.
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Oh, Terri: It touched my heart to read of your efforts at peace-making and especially of your observation that it is making a difference.
I wrote this piece to read aloud during a Rose Ceremony in my meditation group, The Peaceful Heart Sangha, in Fort Collins, CO. This ceremony is to honor our ancestors. I wrote the piece last Sunday morning, which was the same day of the meeting. It just tumbled out, fully-formed, which I thought was a pay-off from lots of writing practice.
My father was not perfect. I might have written something different if the purpose had not been to honor him. I think that it is harder to release the difficult aspects of our parents and our relationships with them while they are still living. I have worked over time to retain the positive qualities and release the negative. There is usually at least one positive thing, even if it is only that our parent gave us life. That is an important thing.
I hope that you made it through your white-knuckle day and that it was not too hard for you. I really appreciate the depth and the honesty of your comments.
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Amazing mom,
Grandpa in a nutshell. I am most fortunate to have a grandfather who still lives on through his smile and a father who discovers new things and spreads good will every day.
anuevuestodio, I can tell you as my grandfather’s private fishing student, he is fishing with your father now.
Happy Father’s Day
sam
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Thanks, Sam — It means a lot to me to hear that you can see Grandpa Bro in this piece.
One of my favorite pictures of you was taken in Cable, Wisconsin when you were five. You are smiling holding a large fish on a stringer — which seems especially large next to the size of the fisherman. I think it was a Northern Pike. I can’t remember for sure, but I bet that you do, it was the trophy from your “private lesson” with Grandpa on that summer day.
Love You, Sam
Momma
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Hi Beth. I am so glad you included the photo. What a wonderful smile your father had. I really like this reflection. I have a picture of my father when he was eight. His smile is no different today than it was then and while I look like my mother, I’ve always been told I have Daddy’s smile. Your article made me feel grateful for that. I guess I have never stopped and thought about what a gift it is!
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Reading this stream of comments was so touching. The first time I read, “My Father’s Smile,” I found myself smiling at the end. The last line is one of the best pay-off lines I’ve read in a long time. In the past when I’ve read stuff, I’ve paid more attention to first lines rather than last lines, but this post made me appreciate last ones all over again. Another thing I love about the post is how straightforward the writing is. There’s an easy pace to it. Writing it seems to have some as easily as Beth’s father’s smile came to the folks he encountered. Lovely. And last, though the actual piece made me smile, reading the word, “Momma” in one of the comments brought tears to my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I saw a woman actually ascribe that title to herself (usually I read, “mom,” or “mommy”). All to say, that title provided yet another wonderful last line. Thank you.
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I was struck by the signature, too. “Momma” seemed so personal and it hit me right n the heart. I felt the same way when I saw Sam’s post.
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Tina: I love your smile! I’m happy to hear that it is a gift from your father. Please, tell your daddy thank you for me, when you see him next, because I’ve been blessed by his gift (your smile) a lot.
Sharonimo: When I wrote the last line, I knew that the piece was done. I appreciate your comment about the “easy pace.” I sat down to write and it flowed out all at once with no stopping and starting. Sometimes I have to reorganize my writing for the final draft, but not this one.
Sam began calling me “momma” when he was in high school or college. I can’t remember if I audibly sighed the first time, but my heart did. Soon all three sons called me that by phone, letter and e-mail. It still hits me in the heart, too, QM.
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Beth: my mom still calls her mother “mama” whenever she talks about her. I find it to be one of the most tender details of their relationship. I love that all three of your boys call you “momma.”
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Dear Beth
You are a wonderful Arthur author, loved and appreciated by Dad, I am certain. The smile, the jokes and puns (so many that my own family regularly credit mine to Dad – and rightly so). We have many gifts to be thankful for, like knowing the value of a sense of humour, and of a smile. Thanks for sharing your smile and Dad’s with me – it brought a happy tear to my eye, and a smile to my face.
Love, Chas
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Chas: You, my sweet brother, may be the only one I know with the capacity to break Dad’s lifetime record for bringing smiles into this world.
Love You, Beth
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Dear Beth,
Just reading this after trip to Cable Wisconsin. I always have some flash of Uncle Kenny while I am on the lake…this time it was seeing him and your brother Pete in the Cable garage tinkering with some unknown tool for some way too specialized purpose for me to care about — just remember their looking preoccupied and focussed. But Uncle Kenny looked up and said something saucy to me and made me laugh as he had with most encounters…and I saw that smile. love you, Annie
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Annie–Thanks for sharing a memory of my dad. I always see him in Cable and it makes me smile, too.
Another thing that makes me smile is a lifetime full of memories with you on the lake…including sleeping on the raft as a kid, when the boys cut us loose in the middle of the night and we woke up at the far end of the lake…no boat or house in sight.
See you in July!
love you, too, Beth
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