By Debora Buerk
Father’s Day was last Sunday. My first since my Dad died in January (on his ninetieth birthday.) I didn’t expect my grief to well up, but the tears flowed. And I’ve been in a funk all week.
He died in January before the COVID vaccination was available to my husband and me. We made the heartbreaking decision to not fly back to Missouri for his funeral. However, I did a lot of journaling since his death recalling memories I have of him. Granted, they are the good memories right now, but I have bad memories as well. I guess I’ll get to those memories further down the road.
I’d like to tell you about my Dad over the next few posts. Maybe it will bring back good memories of your father. If so, I hope you’ll share them. I’d love to read about your Dad.
How my name came to be spelled.
As the story goes, my Dad is the guilty party for misspelling my name—Debora without the ‘h.’ He claimed he forgot it because the ‘h’ is silent.
I was doomed to never have my name pronounced correctly on the first day of school. Nor did I receive pencils with my name spelled without the ‘h.’ I always received the ones printed “Deborah.”
It’s ironic that he inadvertently gave me an unusual spelling of my name because, as a school teacher, he hated unusually spelled names.
Mom says I was named after her favorite actress, Debbie Reynolds of the “Tammy” films. (I prefer to say I was named after one of the Old Testament Judges, Deborah, but her name is spelled differently than mine. Sigh.)
Sixty-three years later, I still have my name mispronounced and receive “free address labels” in the mail with my name misspelled. So I won’t use them on principle.
But I kinda like how my name is spelled now.
Please share your memories of your dad in honor of Father’s Day. I would love to read about him.
Tomorrow: My Dad the Prankster
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