My Father

My mother and father,

left to right, my sister Robin and me,

in front, my sister Christie ( 1959)

My father was a banker, when bankers worked "banker's hours" and everybody knew their local branch manager. My sisters and I were the banker's daughters and everybody knew Art Hunt.

When I was little, I watched my father every morning, as he took his pressed suit pants from the hanger on the hallway closet door. Every day was the same, his shirt was always white(until years later) and slightly starched, his tie was perfectly knotted, his double breasted jacket, black socks and black tie shoes completed the image of the bank manager. Briefcase in one hand, he would bend down to kiss us good bye, leaving a faint smell of Old Spice cologne in our hair. We would watch from the front picture window as he took the one family car, backed out of the driveway and with a toot of the horn, we all would wave goodbye as he headed off to work.

We called his bank "Daddy's bank" and the teller's that worked their were "Daddy's girls".

Sometimes he would call before he came home. If I answered the phone, I felt so grownup.

"Hi Daddy, are you coming home now?"

" In a little bit, Honey," he would reply. "Ask Mommie if she needs anything at the store."

Usually I would tell him, 'bread, that's it'. We never needed milk. The milkman delivered that. We didn't need eggs either, since the Eggman delivered those.

"Go watch for Daddy!" my mother would tell us.

Then my sisters and I would wait by the picture window, craning our necks as far right as we could see down the street. When we spotted his car we would jump up and down gleefully.

"Mommie! Daddy's home," we would shout.

Back through the door he came, briefcase in his hand, with hugs for us all.

"What did you bring us, Daddy?"

Our eyes wide with anticipation, we would watch as he dug deep into his briefcase, removing pink deposit slips or yellow withdrawal slips and sometimes a pencil or maybe a small pad of paper. We would squeal with delight and spend the next hour playing bank.

My father was a good banker; but he was the best dad. There isn't a day that passes that I don't miss him.

My mother writes on this photo:

"Cheryl saves Daddy" 1955