I hope you don’t mind that I’ve put some pictures of you on the Internet. And if you do, too late. Hey, at least you’re not the one wearing footie pajamas.
So after you read this post, you’ll probably read some of the rest of the stuff on this blog and you’ll sigh in exasperation. I can hear it already. You’ll wonder how I ever turned out the way I did – tattooed, a bit foul-mouthed, and, most significantly, not a Republican. Oh, and a fan of Yoko Ono. Ha.
I hope you don’t think it’s all that bad. A lot of your good qualities you have shared with me. For instance, you’re the reason I like Billy Joel, Queen, and various other bastions of classic rock. Also, because of you, I love black-and-white movies, the sound of baseball games on the radio, mid-20th century history, and lemon-lime Gatorade (it reminds me of playing at Gaiser Park in the summertime).
You’ve taught me a lot me a lot, too – and not just how to use a grill, start a lawnmower, ride a bicycle, and operate a record player, although those things are important. You taught me the importance of being kind, patient, and forgiving. And yes, you taught most of these things by example. Towards me. Because I was (and still am) a bit of a patience-trying oldest child. However, in my defense, I maintain that I could have been worse. And at least when I was speeding back home on Highway 50 way past my curfew, I was listening to Boston.
I could not have possibly ended up with a better father. You’re a wonderful person that everyone likes and respects. You’re a strong man and a gentle human being. You’re endlessly supportive and a lot of fun. And you’ve helped raised four pretty awesome kids who can all claim that you’ve been a great and positive influence in their lives.
So thank you, Dad, for everything you’ve done – the big things as well as the little. Thank you for merely rolling your eyes when you could have yelled. Thank you for your toy-assemblage talents that were put to use every birthday and Christmas. Thank you for stopping at the gas station so that I could by candy before you took me to school. Thank you for letting me raid your closet in search of “vintage” t-shirts when I was thirteen. Thank you for not being too disappointed when it was revealed that I was a huge klutz who would simply never play basketball. Thank you for teaching me how to drive without having a heart attack. Thank you for concealing a lot of your disapproval for the guys I brought home and the clothes I wore. Thank you for leaving the porch light on. But mostly, thank you for being steady and understanding as I continue figure life out. I think I appreciate that the most.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you, and I’m proud to be your daughter.