In the waning years of Daddy’s life around 1990, a year or so before he married my late stepmom Hazel, he was having a hard time managing things in his little frame house on the farm where he was born and raised. He broke his hip in the late 1980s, and his mobility never returned to normal.
He rarely was highly observant of the finer details of an orderly household. When I was a child he dropped little pieces of tobacco throughout the house, most often on and around his easy chair in the living room, when he filled his pipe to overflowing before lighting it. Mother found this highly irritating, especially when he stood up and the tobacco flakes fell from his bib overalls to the floor.
Daddy seemed to think his need to smoke a pipe, and the particular messy way he did it, overrode Mother’s need for a tidy house–but he never outright said so as far as I know. His apparent lack of concern about her rebukes–tied with his just “not seeing” the mess he made–revealed such an attitude on his part. While I did not think in these terms in those days, Daddy was completely inconsiderate and insensitive in exercising his smoking habit.
So it was interesting to see how Daddy managed his house when he lived alone for a period of years. As his health declined, the number of medicine bottles increased on the little tabletop beside his easy chair. He had a medicine cabinet in the nearby bathroom, but he preferred his medicines at hand so he would not have to get up to get them in the bathroom. Magazines such as Successful Farmer and Farm Journal piled up on the end of the sofa near his chair. Bathroom cleaners populated the top of the toilet tank, but the bathroom grime suggested Daddy neither noticed it nor the bottles of cleaners at hand. His bedroom and kitchen were similarly usable but not especially clean or tidy. Far from it, actually.
On one of our trips to see him, Ellen and I asked Daddy if we could get him anything from the grocery store. He reached over and picked up a used Number 10 envelope that he had leaned up on edge among the medicine bottles. He had a grocery list on the back.
As he handed me the list he explained what he wanted in particular. A certain brand of crackers. Same with beans, bread, eggs, and so on. Then with regard to paper towels on the list, he said, “Son, get the ones with the picture of the man on them.” I smiled when he said this, so he emphasized very seriously, “You know, the ones with the man on them.” He emphasized the word “man” each time, speaking in a clear, firm voice.
I said, “I think you mean Brawny paper towels.”
Daddy said, “That’s it. Brawny. They have the man on the front.”
“Will do.”
Brawny paper towels that Daddy liked. (Photo credit)
That was nearly a quarter century ago and this episode of Daddy ordering paper towels from the store is one of my most vivid memories of him during that period of his life. It’s certainly possible that Daddy had tried other brands of paper towels over the years and just found that Brawny towels were better than the others. But I doubt that in his case.
I think Daddy had to surround himself in a “manly” house with “manly” products. He did not want to be overly domestic, did not want to go soft in old age. Did not want to make choices that a woman might typically make, as he saw it then.
Oddly or not, Ellen and I have shopped for Brawny paper towels ever since. She doesn’t really care about the brand that much, the best I can tell, but she knows Brawny paper towels remind me of a fond moment with Daddy. This is related in thought to the blog post I wrote a few months ago about brand loyalty, about how Daddy’s preferences for pickup trucks when I was growing up led me to own several cars among my car choices from that same company throughout my adult life.
Ellen and I have a supply of Brawny paper towels in our pantry. A roll of them is always near our kitchen sink. I keep a roll in our garage for cleaning car windshields and windows. We keep Brawny paper towels in our bathrooms beside the Windex.
Nearly every time I reach for a paper towel, many times a week, this memory of Daddy comes to mind: “Son, get the ones with the picture of the man on them.”
Watch for stories from growing up on a poor Tennessee farm, moving away, study, travel, parenthood, striving, setbacks, and just crazy stuff! 
Isn’t it strange how such a seemingly trivial and at the time insignificant request by your father has provided you with one of your most lasting and endearing memories of him. To quote Forrest Gump, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what your going to get.”
Thanks for your observation, Bill. You’re right, we never know in the present when something from it will stick with us many years later. Forrest Gump was right, too.
A good story, E.B. I always thought of your dad as a kind man with very few words. I can’t imagine that my dad would have wanted a particular kind of any grocery item, though he would buy a few things, now that I think about it – like Vienna Sausage and crackers, a box of Cherry Candy, a Peppermint Stick, a Dr. Pepper to drink. Tony bought most of the groceries after my mother died in 1990 – which was a new thing for him too. Life is just a series of adjustments anyway, right?
Diane, thanks so much for kind note from “back home” and your recollection of Daddy. Your mentioning the peppermint stick reminds me that Daddy bought a huge one each Christmas and at no other time of the year. (Maybe that was the only time they were available in stores.) Each one was about 4-5 inches in diameter and 15 inches long, at least as I remember them now. We broke them up with a meat hammer and ate pieces large and small for months until it was gone. We also ate a lot of Vienna sausages with crackers, occasionally had a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and drank Dr. Peppers often, too.
On your broader point, I think you’re right about life being a series of adjustments. For me, that’s often where the fun is.
I liked this segment very much, but something here nags at me. Was your father inconsiderate to your mother in other ways? Obviously he gave her so much extra work in running an already difficult farm house, and did not notice her request to stop his annoying habits. It seems to me that your mother, living with someone who made it a point to ignore her, would not exactly find the “manly” towels an endearing quality
Ilil, thanks much for you thoughtful comment. I don’t remember my father being generally inconsiderate of my mother’s feelings, but she may have remembered it quite differently than I do. She had been deceased for a good number of years before my father developed his fondness for Brawny paper towels. She was also a frequent critic of the way he managed the farm and his finances, so he tended to be dismissive of her criticisms rather than argue with her. Their marriage was far from perfect.
Thank you. I suppose I sensed something about the less than perfect marriage — which shows that you are truly a wonderful storyteller!
Ilil, you have wonderful sensors. Thanks for your added comment.
That is a precious memory, E.B.
Yes, it is. Thanks much, Julia Dee!
From my conversations with other people, I think we have forgotten how Brand Loyal we were. You either drove a John Deere tractor or an International– a Ford or a Chevy -you were a pipe smoker or you weren’t. I’ve have been in a dozen farm houses just like your Dad’s and do not remember catching a thing. My favorite thing as a kid was to walk about a 1/2 mile to this old Bachelors place and he would fix me a peanut butter sandwich. It was a Crumby Little Farm Shack. Full of Love and probably not too clean.
Don, thanks much for your interesting comment. It adds to the theme of this post really well. Because of your note, tomorrow I’m going to have a PB&J sandwich!
Thanks so much! The poem about your father is fetching and sweet. He must be very proud of you and your beautiful writing.