Happy Fathers Day
I know I’m early but the chances of me remembering to post this are very slim.
I love my dad. I can’t say he’s the best dad ever, but he’s definitely one of my favorites. I think I’m a lot like him. Which is funny because I use to claim we were nothing alike! I often wonder what he was like before he met my mom, before 11 kids got to him, before he got old. Did he always act like this, or was it the years that molded him into who he is now? Was he the same type of dad to my older sisters? Or was he more protective? Was he more or less stern? More fun? I guess we all wonder what our parents were like before they were parents.
My dad is pretty difficult to describe. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s usually something funny or rude, maybe you’ll get an answer to a question. If he doesn’t want to agree to something he won’t answer.
Example : Me: Hey Dad, can I use your car to go to Vegas and attempt to increase your retirement fund or at least buy enough booze to get some rich sucker to secure my future with a signed marriage license?
Dad: …. [breathes deeply]
Me: Is that a yes?
Dad: errgh
Me: Sounds like a yes to me. Where are the key’s?
Dad: uggghhh – how long you think you’ll be gone?
If he doesn’t have an opinion he refuses to decide.
Example:
Me: What do you want for dinner, subs or burgers ?
Dad: yeah.
Me: what do you want on your burger?
Dad: sure.
Me: ketchup? musterd? pickles? Chocolate syrup?
Dad: whatever.
Me: what movie do you want to watch?
Dad: whatever
Me: which one [hands him a chick flick, an animated, a superhero, a endoftheworld, and a cops and robbers movie]
Dad: just put one it [hands me the top one without looking]
Me: [puts in the little mermaid]
He usually responds in grunts and vowels. My sister, Jenn, and I think he’s a pirate caveman. He watches Jeopardy but doesn’t shout out the answers … unless it’s a hard or ‘interesting’ question and he likes to show off. He can fix any car … well he can tell you what’s wrong with it at least and then decide whether or not he wants to fix it. He gives some great hugs. He loves my mom and puts up with all her crazys. He is a horrible procrastinator, and he covers it well – he’ll work on other stuff that needs to be done but really he’s just pushing off whatever it is he doesn’t want to do. He doesn’t sing along to the radio, but you know he’s listening because he turns the station when an annoying song comes on. He has road rage but doesn’t verbalize it. He hates the city. He turns a different race in the summer. He’s learned that kids need to make their own mistakes. He’s a Chevy man. He can dance, but only when his wife makes him. He likes the clean air of silence. He doesn’t usually offer up information without being asked. He’s impatient. He loves his kids, and grandkids. Some things can’t be expressed in words. I mean how can I convey the awesomeness that is him. He grills these perfect burgers that can’t be duplicated because he never remembers exactly what he put on them. He has these wordless conversations, you know what he wants to say but he doesn’t want to say it because it’s not what you want to hear so he refuses to answer hoping that the issue will be dropped. He drives with the windows rolled down and a cigarette in this mouth, one hand on the wheel. He’s addicted to coffee and gets offended when you wash his mug, claiming you just washed away the flavor. He’s perfected the art of oooing and ahhing over a scribbled coloring book. He reads anything he picks up, including Harry Potter, and finishes it in record timing. He pulls out loose teeth now matter how squirmy the kid is. He treats my friends like their his own – even if he’s just met them. And he’ll always have you’re back. See this still pales in comparison ...
He stood behind a towheaded shrimp, barely tall enough to reach the stove; a griddle stretched between the burners with two gooey saucer sized puddles cooking. “No not yet, you have to wait until a lot of bubbles start popping up before you can flip it. That’s how you know it’s done.”
The thick nightgown clung to the soggy little girl. She stood in front of his chair with her head flipped over and her hair hanging in her face. The man took the towel and started scrubbing her head. She stood close to the wood stove, absorbing the heat as the towel soaked up all the water.
It was still dark outside when the sleepy blonde slowly climbed down the stairs. She drudgingly dragged her tired body to the chair where her clothes were laid out the night before. “Daddy, can you help me?” She starts to pull of her nighty but it gets stuck on her head and arms, swiftly he rescues her flailing limbs. His rough hands curl up the stockings so she can slip her feet in and pull them up. The dress falls perfectly over her head and his bulky hands fasten the tiny buttons.
The old man comes through the door and drops the blue lunch pail on the shelf. He slowly crosses to his chair, sinks into the worn cushions, and releases his tired feet from their personal prisons and leans back. He doesn’t even remember closing his eyes but seconds later a deep snore rings threw the living room.
Impatiently she stands by the counter. Frustration is clearly written across her face. He watches her stomp back to her room. The sound of the clock hangs in the air. An older version of the girl hustles in the kitchen and grabs a stack of papers and a coffee cup. He hears the thundering steps of the annoyed blonde. She attempts to escape out the door but he blocks her path and wraps her in a hug.
Nope, snap shots don’t work either. I guess you’ll never know. But he’s pretty fantastic. I love you Dad.
