Things my daddy gave me.

Obsessively I squirrel away a tiny neatly boxed bar of soap, the mini shampoo and conditioner, and even the shower cap I will never use and stuff it into a puckered side pocket of my luggage. In the morning a chambermaid will replenish the supply and I will repeat the hoarding ritual nostalgic of my father.

When I was a little girl he traveled frequently on business. Daddy was a big important marketing executive for Honeywell where the corporate giants of cutting edge computer technology proudly proclaimed him to be the first Native American to be promoted to such a lofty position in the burgeoning industry. Daddy smiled and posed for pictures like a rare bird just captured out of the rainforest.

Clunk – that would be the sound of Daddy’s head hitting the glass ceiling.

Thank God he ignored imposed limitations to pursue his dreams. What a legend he left.

He was among the founders of our modern day Mashpee Wampanoag Tribal Council in 1972 and lead the tribe for many years, blazing the trail to federal acknowledgement. During that time he also secured the piece of tribal land we call "55 acres" where our new tribal government center opened last week.

To me he was daddy first and when he was traveling around as part of corporate America he never forgot his little girl.

Honeywell was a household name in the 1960s that would rival Apple today. They toured my daddy around the country so he could sell information systems that filled entire rooms, spit out reams of cryptically encoded paper and operated on key punch cards. Today an eight year old can hold all that technology in the palm of his hand and operate it with his thumb.

Ask the kid what Honeywell is and perplexed, he will tap his tiny keyboard and within seconds “Google” the correct answer.

When daddy traveled I missed him terribly, perhaps more than my mother did. I was lonesome for his games and stories, his eagerness to curl up on the couch with me and my brothers on a Saturday morning to watch Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner.

“Beep, beep!”

Back then I was a shameless tattle tale, ratting out my brothers for calling me “gunky” or pinching me or stealing my Barbie and forcing her into G.I. Joe’s tent. Any of these offenses would work me into a tearful protest that was not nearly as effective when mommy was the enforcer.

Mommy was the consummate moderate when it came to the boy’s antics. She would retrieve my doll, admonish the culprit, acknowledge my hurt feelings and encourage us to play nicely. To the contrary my whimpering would inspire Daddy to bellow theatrically “who is bothering my little girl?!” Daddy would cuddle me close and wipe my crocodile tears as my brothers protested the obvious partiality.

So daddy’s homecoming was always a celebrated event for me. My biggest fan was home and he always had a souvenir from his trip, a surprise that was never really a surprise nonetheless cherished as if I had never seen one just like it.

Daddy would pop open his travel case on his bed and unpack his Right Guard, his shaving kit and wrinkled business clothes.

“Oh…” he would say in the same dramatic voice he used to acknowledge my temper tantrum, “is there something in here for you?”

Russell M. Peters III visiting his great-granddad's headstone. 

I was giddy watching him dig around in the pockets to produce the tiny bar of soap, neatly wrapped in paper with the words “Howard Johnson” written in orange on the package.

It filled me with delight that little soap did. Even many years later as I realized it wasn’t purchased, and in fact nothing more than a savvy marketing ploy to be stolen by design. To me it was uniquely the soap my daddy gave me.

Bathroom swag is standard hospitality industry marketing these days only now it comes in the form of a glycerin facial cleanser wrapped in a delicate organic rice paper. The bath bar freckled with exfoliating elements could be mistaken for soap that had been dropped in the sand (and quite honestly it probably was) and the shampoo and conditioner is keratin infused.  There are also bath salts, cotton balls and Q-Tips, a buffing cloth to shine your shoes, and a sewing kit. I take it all like a common thief and bring it home to my unimpressed children.

“Really mom? You went to Vegas and all I get is this bar of soap?”

Just a bar of soap…  I guess some traditions skip a generation.