My Dad

This past weekend, I was away with my boys on the Cape, enjoying a sweet mini-break with some lovely old friends (who are, in fact, quite British now with their four sweet children, so forgive if my writing sounds a bit more clipped and UK-accented than usual). And although I didn't altogether forget it was Father's Day -- in fact, I had carefully planned a gift and a card from the boy for Jim, and then made special mention of the day to my friend's dad who was visiting as well -- I had to be reminded by my husband to actually call my dad on Sunday. And of course, my response was a wee bit reticent -- I recall saying something to the effect like, "But I already sent a gift and a card..." Bad daughter. For the record, I did call. And had to leave a message since my parents were out. And then, yes, ignored their call back about a half hour later (we were on vacation...at the Cape -- and my friend had company, I didn't want to be rude). Yes again, bad daughter. At least somewhat anyway...

So, it occurs to me today after reading Boho Girl, that I could once again "borrow" from her loveliness of spirit yet again to pay tribute -- in writing this time -- to my oh-so-lovely-and-loving Dad. My favorite, fondest memories of my childhood include my Dad (and a surprising amount of them revolve around food as well). My dad used to bring home small plain cheesecakes from his restaurant, and I vividly remember sitting in our avocado green kitchen and simply digging in, just the two of us. No plates. Me on my stool. Dad in a chair. Two forks and away we went.

Longjohn donuts at John's Spaceage on Saturday mornings, Dad making huge breakfasts on Sunday morning, always exactly ready when Mom and I got home from church. As a wee child, I remember summer Dairy Queen outings every Sunday night -- Dad always got the "daddy-size" hot fudge sundae, and I always had the small one (usually in one of those upside-down plastic baseball caps they used to have). I literally almost shed a tear these days when I drive by the spot where that old Dairy Queen used to be. So vivid those memories are.

I remember a "boys" fishing trip that me and my dad went on in Destin when I was in college. I was the only female onboard, and dad and I got stuck in Florida while a huge tropical storm moved in. We caught a fair number of fish. Just the two of us.

I remember hot summer nights at our old house sitting outside on our patio, with Dad listening to the baseball game on this shoddy little radio, a beer in one hand and a cap on his head. The smell of Coors still brings back those humid nights so clearly.

I remember the first time that Dad cooked at the American Royal BBQ contest -- what a night of good food, late music and general craziness. Once again, just dad and me. We were laughing so hard at how huge the whole night was.

Only one time during high school did I get officially grounded. And to get me out of my mother's range, we decided to take a drive. Four hours later, we came back with the blue Jeep for me (which, for the record, I owned for 17 years). My sweet father shooed me out of the house to go enjoy my new car while my mother was literally screaming in the background, "I ground her and you go out and buy her a f***ing car?!?!?" That's simply one of my favorite dad stories of all time.

I've only ever really seen my dad mad -- fully angry, embarrassed and near fury -- once. And that was following a crazy tequila night involving my then boyfriend (now hubby), my mother and my eldest sister. I still don't know exactly what when down (I was working), but it involved my dad being mad at my mom and sis for well over a week. And the only time I've ever seen my dad lose his cool was on the plane to Switzerland, when he thought he'd lost the passports, and ended up finding them in the sleeve of his parka. He's always so calm. So centered. So even-keeled. And always with a half-smile on his face.

I remember my wedding -- and all the plans that led up to it -- and how my dad made sure that the whole affair was so very much about Jim and me, and not anything, or anyone else. I also remember him figuring out the bar bill the day after. The memory of his sudden exclamation, out of nowhere, of "That's like 10 drinks apiece!" still makes me giggle a bit. And my favorite shot of my dad, with his dark glasses and a cigar in his mouth and this silly grin on his face...we call this pic the Godfather. My sweet dad.

I remember overhearing him talking to a friend of his one day, who couldn't understand, couldn't fathom why I didn't want to take over my dad's million-dollar corporation, the family biz, just step right in a career and go, and hearing my dad telling him, "Because that's the easy way out for her. And she's not like that."

There was the time when I was living (struggling, floundering) in Boston, and he called me up and just said, "Come home." Armed with excuses -- my internship, my job, my apartment lease, my roommate -- he interrupted and just repeated, "What are you doing up there? Come home." And I did. And, of course, father did know best in this particular case.

I remember my dad and I gardening, cleaning, taking care of cows and chickens and trees and fences and such on the farm we basically built together. The farm I had to leave behind. The farm he still takes care of cuz he knows I can't bear to let it go just yet. 

And now I look around and see all the pictures of my dad as a grandpa. Popo to Grif. And he's been so easy and comfortable and good with the boy from the very beginning. My favorite memory is of my dad asleep on the couch, head back, mouth open, with Grif, asleep on his chest, head back, mouth open....

My dad. I know he won't ever get to read this himself, but I'll tell him about it. And we'll laugh and talk again about all the silly things we used to do -- the good memories. The crazy stories. The good, good, goodness that is all things my dad. Happy Father's day, dad. With all my heart.