You really can’t call me a daddy’s girl. Dad did a good job of treating my sister and I the same. But I sort of ended up the daughter who is more like a son.
I can remember the two of us riding around in his old “booger green” (that’s what I called it) Chevrolet pickup, with a pack of snack crackers and a Coke. We cruised the country roads of northern Alabama, occasionally stopping by the co-op to pick up seed for his vegetable garden.
He chaperoned my youth group’s caving trip, where we spent the night in a damp cavern after hours of belly crawling through mud. We laughed to each other at the scaredy-cat boys who were afraid of the dark.
A few years back, I tagged along with him, his brothers and their sons on a fly-fishing daytrip in the Tennessee mountains. It was great to share a boat with just him and our guide, laughing at our rookie mistakes.
Now I’m the subject of many of the stories he tells his friends (whether they care to hear them or not). Dad doesn’t hunt but loves to keep tabs on where I’m going next and what I got while I was there, so he can report all the stats at his morning coffee group at Burger King.
Growing up, I favored more of my dad’s side of the family, closer in looks to his sister than anyone else. Now, I’ve taken on more of my mom’s features. However, I still have a dimple in my chin, just like Dad.
As far as my career, I’m less like my dad as well. I make my living by keeping my fingers attached to a keyboard. I’m not sure Dad even knows how to turn on a computer — or that he even cares to learn. He probably won’t even know this ode to him exists until I call or text Mom to pull it up for him. She’ll have to print it out so he can read it.
Dad never needed to know how to boot up a laptop. He worked in a chemical plant for 32 years, making a living for our family. His free time was spent in the yard and garden, at church, and simply being a great dad.
I always knew Dad loved my sister and me. But until I became a working parent myself, albeit one with only three years of parenthood under her belt, I never fully realized what a commitment he made to our family.
So, Dad, let me say thank you…
Not just for pulling 32 years worth of shift work (many of them on swing) … but for always being there for me. I can’t remember you ever NOT being at a piano recital, softball game or school program, when I’m sure a nap sounded much sweeter than 20 variations of “Clair de Lune.”
Not just for staying up ‘til the wee hours of the night assembling bikes and Barbie dream houses on behalf of Santa … but for keeping the magic (and innocence) of Christmas alive for as long as you could.
Not just for planning station wagon-packed trips around the country when there were only AAA Triptiks and an atlas to guide you … but for instilling in me a sense of curiosity that extends beyond my front door.
You’ve taught me how to be a friend and a parent, and how to live in the present. More importantly, I’ve learned there’s no person I’d rather emulate than you.