By Bridget Daley
Today is my dad’s birthday. He would have been 73.
I am the oldest of three, followed by Shaun and Scot. As a child, I loved the weekday mornings when my father would get up crazy early before work to make cornbread, from scratch, in a cast-iron skillet. My mom, Sharon, my brothers and I would awaken to the heavenly smell wafting through the air and beckoning us to the kitchen where together we’d savor its warmth and flavor. Then as now, it felt like a gift.
My dad was born Robert Francis Daley, but everyone called him “Bud.” From him, I inherited my blue eyes, artistic talents, passion for food, and love of the outdoors. But we were very different in some ways and didn’t always see eye-to-eye. He had a quick temper by nature, and when my parents separated and then divorced when I was in my teens, his animosity toward my mother manifested itself in ways that affected the whole family.
When I was 18, and my father was remarried, he and I got into a relatively trivial argument that, sadly, ended in a standoff: “If you leave this house,” he said, “don’t come back.” Shocked by this statement, and thinking it best not to continue the conversation, I left, shaken. We became estranged for the next 10 years or more.
My feelings about him during that time were dominated by anger and resentment. When he moved to Montana with his wife, Eileen, taking my youngest brother, Scot, with them, I wrote my father off.
As time went by, even with the distance of Montana and New Jersey between us, we were forced to be in the same room for Scot’s graduation, his wedding, and other family gatherings after Scot’s sons were born. My dad and I would endure many instances of avoidance, punctuated by tense, awkward small talk. But gradually, and almost imperceptibly over quite a few years, the ice melted as we reconnected by finding common ground in our shared loves: food and cooking, nature, and my nephews, his grandchildren.
We never really discussed the chasm that had existed between us or the reasons for it. But it was bridged in large part by an assortment of packages from Montana. He would overnight shipments of homemade bacon from his kitchen or cherries from his orchard, send Christmas gift boxes from him and Eileen overflowing with favorite provisions and cookbooks, email me recipes and whimsical stories, and mail me photos of the nephews I missed so much. He built Adirondack chairs, disassembled them, and shipped them to me with hand-drawn instructions for putting them together. Bit by bit, each thoughtful gesture pushed past resentments behind us to a place where they no longer mattered. They made me love and appreciate my father for the person he was.
A few years ago, I gave my dad a “MAKE CORNBREAD, NOT WAR” hat for Christmas. I hope he knew it symbolized, for me, our mutual victory over the past war between us.
Dad passed away last September. I miss him.
Happy birthday, Dad.
Bridget Daley, a lifelong foodie and avid gardener, is a writer, editor, and creative director in Madison, NJ. She still loves cornbread. You can reach her at bd@bdaleycreative.com