Day 239

My hair began to turn white when I was 26, right after my dad died suddenly, unexpectedly. He was 52. His hair had turned white prematurely, too. He had been a redhead, which mostly I can only imagine, as the photos of him — of us — from my early childhood are almost all in black and white.

But there are stories — and I tell them, too — about how his red hair defined him, mostly in ways he perhaps wished it hadn’t. The star high school athlete from a small town. The standout student who went on to the college that gave him financial aid, even if it wasn’t quite the ivy he had hoped for. The one with the bright, and I mean bright, red hair. Cut very short then, in the 1960s, as more black-and-white photos show me.

I wish I had been able to ask him, though, how he really felt about it. How much of his refusal to wear the color red — even after his hair turned white — was because of his own preference as a child or, perhaps, because of his mother’s? Because of something someone else had said to him. Something that stuck. Now that I have my own red-haired child, and witness how she is defined by others always first by the color of her hair, I want to know how he handled this. Since she could first talk my daughter, now 15, was quick to correct the older women in the grocery stores who regularly commented on her red hair. “It’s orange,” my daughter would insist, pronouncing it “owange.” She’s not wrong. And she never hesitated to be sure people knew it. But what did my dad say? Did he have the opportunity to respond? Or, as a child, did his parents answer for him? I don’t know. But given that this question even occurs to me I realize it’s likely. The man who would go to law school and find a voice so many would seek out perhaps started off as someone who didn’t speak up.

But. I don’t really know. I never had the chance to ask .

What would my own redhead’s relationship be with my dad, I wonder? Would it be more special than that of his relationships with my other two children? Would seeing her embrace her hair color and the way it defines her — especially as a performer, on stage, so confident in the spotlight — allow him to revisit his own childhood feelings about the physical quality that I remember being told defined him in a way he wished it hadn’t. My daughter’s hair is long. Long to her waist. Long in the way of many ballet dancers. And when she is heading to a class, she whips it up into the most stunning bun on top of her head, a brightly colored, unmistakable crown. Orange. And one of the things about herself that makes my daughter — proudly — who she is.

My dad was intimidating to many, sometimes even to me. He was intelligent. His sense of humor was dry. He was hard on himself. He liked to research before he made purchases, working to be certain he had made the best decision, optimizing price and quality. When I think back on my childhood — one that did not include the Internet, online reviews and recommendations — I remember the Sunday circulars, the price comparisons, that the TV he was looking to buy was cheapest at Lechmere and ground beef was cheapest at Price Chopper (but for American cheese this week, Hannaford was the destination).

My dad would have LOVED the internet. The technology age that we are living in. When he died we were all still reliant on dial up. On AOL. We would log in and we would wait to connect. At the time of his death he had recently retired early from his job with the state and spent hours each day on the computer. We all expected he would find another gig, though I didn’t spend much time thinking about what that might be. I was newly off on my own, trying to decide if I should broaden my horizons or stay in the safe post-college bubble I’d created for myself. My hair was still its non-white color. A nondescript light brown, a dirty blond. Just there and not distinct in any way. Now, as I text my sister rapid fire, boot up my laptop, speak into my TV remote control (“continue watching ER on Hulu”), I picture him, in our big family house in the suburbs, on the couch, cradling an iPad, logged into the Daily Racing Form. Checking his horses. Writing me an email. Scrolling through the Washington Post, the NY Times, the Times Union. And what else? Where else would he be spending what I am certain would be ample amounts of time online?

Likely reading politics. Likely, if he truly were with us today, relieved but still a bit enraged at the last four years, he may still have all screens open, rewatching last night’s addresses by our president-elect and his running mate — a woman who is marking anew what it can mean to be a woman. He would be celebrating with us and for us, his daughters, his granddaughters. The redhead and the other two. And his six grandsons, too. The future. Of our family as of so much more.

He died before the 2000 presidential election, the one that, for me personally, changed the way I view my responsibility as a voter. I can imagine the conversations we would have had at the time about hanging chads. About the electoral college. About presidential history. My dad was a historian, and I was never interested in history when I was a child. I wish now, of course, that he was here. I always wish that. For him to have met his nine grandchildren, to have watched them grow up. To educate us, share his expertise, quiz us on U.S. history, world geography, where to get the best deal on rakes, so many needed to remove the leaves from our yards on a sunny fall day not unlike today.

But I miss him for me, too. I miss him for all of the opportunities I dismissed and never had a second chance at. I wish now that I could talk to him about history. About the first election he voted in. About the year that he lived in Baltimore and taught school. About why he decided to go to law school and why he told me never to be a lawyer. I wish I could ask him when exactly he decided to let his red hair grow into waves. Then about when it turned white. I wonder if I’d have the courage to ask him what he was might have been worried about. As we faced a presidential election, as we now can embrace a new administration, and as we still have so much work to do over the days and weeks to come that will define the next course in this ongoing pandemic.

The uncertainty that I have been feeling — this past week, these past four years? — is not unlike how I felt when my dad died, and the immediate months and then years afterward. How would we go on without him? How we we endure such uncertainty? How would we still be a family without him?

And that’s why — I realize now — I am thinking of him, more today than usual. Of the ways we were similar, and of the ways all of our lives are similar. Of the unknown details of his life and the missed opportunities for me to learn more. Of all we have to celebrate and of what we have to fear. I like to think that he and I would have had conversations about the big questions. He was one to talk and to listen. He was one to inform and to learn. He was one that many found intimidating, yes. Because of his intelligence. His achievements. His red, then white, hair, distinguished looking. Distinct from his peers, always. But those who knew him best, who were his closest family members, friends, colleagues, knew him to be someone whose respect they craved because of the respect that he offered. What would he have had to say, as we awaited the next marker of our future? What would he have said about my own hair turning white, eventually — gradually —rather than suddenly. What would he have had to offer that I wouldn’t have found anywhere else?

Maybe nothing more than a smile, a bad (yes, dad) joke, an obscure historical fact, and then the offer of a shared meal and a new TV turned up loud. Normalcy in a moment that is anything but. That, I guess, is what I miss, what I — still — crave, and what I wish for.

Stay safe, everyone.