From
the beginning, my father was always there. He spilt tears of happiness whenever
he held me in his arms. He carried me on
his back and sometimes tossed me in the air.
He caught me when I took my first steps and stumbled. He helped me color inside the lines and told
me stories about Indians and the passage of time. He was the master chef who taught me how to
make grilled cheese and spam sandwiches.
He taught me how to put a minnow on a fishing line, toss it in Lake
Lavon, and wait until the bobber sank under the surface of the water. He
taught me how to tie my shoes and ride a bike.
He sat with me by a campfire, told me stories, and set my spirit and
imagination free.
On the first day of school, he held my
hand and walked me to front door. With
tears in his eyes, he hugged me and gave me courage by saying, “You
are my brave daughter. I love you.”
When mother told me to ask for his permission, he would always say, “Go
ask your mother.”
He was there to sometimes lecture me and to prepare me for the
unchartered waters called junior high.
He put up with my teenage moods and my co-ed relationships. He approved, disapproved, accepted, and
forgave. When I graduated from high
school and college he gave me a big bundle of flowers. And when my name was called he stood proud,
yelled, and clapped. He embraced me and kissed me when I moved a
thousand miles away knowing that once again he would have to let me go. He saw
me become a working woman, and later walked me down the aisle. Throughout the years, he watched me grow and
deepen as did the lines on his face. He
always welcomed me home and let me hug him and smell the smell I remembered from
childhood—the warm, protecting, comforting smell of dad. He gave me a loving
spirit and forged with his stubbornness, tenacity, patience, and integrity—all of
which are an integral part of me still. But
most of all, he was always there to love me. His spirit is with me now, and I hope to
glean some wisdom from his memory. I
love and miss you, Pop!
