Today, my dad turns 70.
Which is weird. Because he hasn’t
aged since he turned 50. I don’t give my
dad near enough blog space. My boys will
tell you that many of my sentences begin with “Your Ada used to say…” or “Your Ada
taught me…” or “One time, your Ada…” My
boys love these stories because they are the perfect combination of folklore and
wisdom. So is my Dad.
My dad gave me the
secondary scripture by which I live.
“It is what it is” – he didn’t create the saying, but he
made it a life-lesson for me about things I have no control over.
“It takes all kinds” – another phrase my dad didn’t invent,
but used as psychological cannon. This was
the phrase my dad used when I was having trouble understanding the behaviors of
others (he used this quite a bit through my high school years). I know this seems too short a phrase to be mind-blowing,
but I’ve leaned on it numerous times in my adulthood and thanked him for the
voice in my head that reminds me I can’t change people and that my world is fuller
because we are all different.
“That’s slicker than buffalo snot on a porcelain doorknob.” - you could just say something is slippery,
but where’s the fun in that?
“Can you do anything
about it? If you can, do it. If not, stop worrying about it.” – my dad to
me whenever I was stressing verbally about something. It’s not just a saying to him. My dad lives this better than anyone else I
know.
“I’ll hit you so hard you’ll hum like a ten-penny finishing
nail hit by a greasy ball-peen hammer.” – my dad is not a violent man. But this was the threat I honestly believed
would happen to me if I ever dared to tickle his bare feet as they hung off the
end of his recliner. A related threat,
and the one we laugh at the most, was “I’ll wrap your ass up around your elbow.” I’ll let you ponder that image. The lesson here is; don’t tickle my dad’s
feet. Bad things will happen to
you.
My dad gave me my
flair for exaggeration.
“I left 52 messages.” – meaning he called twice and left me
one message.
“I had to hit it 57 times to get it to stick.” – maybe 5
times.
“You’re talking 53 miles an hour.” – I’m not sure there’s
science that can back such a claim, but I bet if there were, he might be right
on this one.
My dad says fitty. So
It’s fitty-three or fitty-two, etc. And
it’s ALWAYS a number in the 50’s when he’s exaggerating.
My dad gave me mental
snap shots of his awesomeness.
My dad was always fixing my cars, so I have a still shot of
my dad’s legs stretching out from underneath a car. And my dad, very much like Darren McGavin in
A Christmas Story, used "colorful" language when he was frustrated. So, my dad is kind of like the wicked wizard of
home auto repair. Legs protruding from
underneath a car instead of a house and curse words streaming into the atmosphere
like puffs of diesel exhaust.
My dad was the Easter Bunny.
Easter was Donald Formby’s holiday and we all knew it. Mom bought the dye and Dad and I dyed the
eggs. Then, he hid them for me – all the
way through high school. I have a
picture in my mind of my dad skipping away with a basket full of eggs to hide while
my mom and I stood laughing at him from the house. We shook our heads as our hearts were filled
with love for a man who could fix a car in the morning and skip away from the
house like a cartoon Peter Cottontail in the afternoon. The payoff for my dad was eating the dyed
eggs, which he swears taste better than regular boiled eggs.
My Dad carved a mean Pumpkin. We didn’t have these fancy carving kits you
find in the stores today (said in my best crotchety old lady voice). I have a picture
in my mind of my dad with his tongue out to one side, a scowl of concentration on
his face, a butcher knife in his hand, and the beginnings of a friendly smile
on our pumpkin’s face.
My Dad cries like a baby at rehearsal dinners. What’s especially endearing about this is
that my dad is a man’s man. A deer
hunter and former gun-store owner. He’s athletic
and fearless and rugged and everything the quintessential Southern man should
be. Until he gets a glass of champagne
in his hand and has to give a toast.
Then my dad is a lawn sprinkler.
A huggable, loveable, underdog of a leaky faucet. He’s going to wrap my you-know-what around my
elbow for telling this one. J
My dad knows how to
make a bad situation better.
We went to see The Empire Strikes Back at the movies and the
film broke in the middle of it. The
theater apologized and sent us on our way.
I was 7 at the time and seriously bummed. So my dad turned our Mazda 280ZX into the Millennium
Falcon. He drove home swerving and downshifting and speeding up to escape the
Imperial ghost ships that were hot on our tail.
Best movie date ever.
My dad has fixed more than one science project gone
awry. For me and my kids. He has a tool or glue for any
occasion. He's not just a duct tape guy. He's evolved.
My dad buried my dog, Charlie, and we cried together and he
told me that it was ok because our cat, who had died that same year, would be
there to make sure Charlie was ok. Dad,
thank you for that. In case I never told
you.
My dad fixed numerous broken hearts with equal amounts of
hugging and trash-talking the offender (whether boyfriend or best friend).
My dad gave me my
love for Westerns - thanks, Dad.
Today. I am filled with love and gratitude for my Dad. He’s made up of equal parts hero, legend, and
straight-man – but he manages to come across as all heart. He's who I want to be when I grow up. Well, except for the threats about touching his feet and vehement hatred to tangled Christmas tree lights. I'll let him have those things as a kind of signature.
I love you, Dad.
