Daddy's Girl

Actually, I never really thought of myself as a Daddy's girl. My father and I have never had the world's greatest relationship. We never seem to see eye to eye on anything, and, especially in my teenage years, I rebelled a lot against what he thought was best for me, or how he thought it best to raise me. Words were exchanged and feelings hurt on both sides on more than one occasion. However, I do feel that over the last few years we have come to a mutual understanding and respect for one another.
One thing I am sure of, and have never doubted, is that my father loves me very much. And despite all of our differences, I love him very much too, I always have, and I always will. My father raised me pretty much by himself for a large part of my childhood. He was the one who kissed me goodnight every night, who made me say my prayers before I went to sleep, and who always told me, at the end of every day, that he loved me. I credit him as being a very significant contributor in the fact that I grew up always knowing that no matter where in the world I was, someone out there loved me.
I have so many happy childhood memories of days spent at the cabin, rides on the skidoo, him taking us out in the woods or fishing. My father is an outdoorsman at heart and I am convinced he could survive indefinitely in the woods with nothing but a tin can and some wire. He's the McGyver of outdoor living. I believe that over the years we have resolved any of the differences we may have had in the past, and now the things I remember most about my childhood are all the fun things we used to do with Daddy when we were small. I also credit him with my appreciation of music, especially the classics, and by that I mean the Beatles, the Stones, Simon and Garfunkle, and CCR, among others. I clearly remember having to do a music project on a "classical" musician (Handel, I believe) in elementary school, and my father claiming that I should be able to do my project on a "real" classical musician, like John Lennon, for instance.

That is why, when I received word this weekend that my father suffered a small stoke last Friday, my heart skipped a beat. Though we live far apart, and we don't speak often (he hates talking on the phone and is computer illiterate, lol) I think of him often, and I can't imagine what my life would be like without him in it. He's a young man, only 54 years old. I am not ready to lose him.

Yet when I spoke to him today, after he was released from the hospital, he was the same as ever, making jokes, making light of the situation, most likely to keep me calm. (I remember he always used to joke that I was "getting his shirt all wet" when I would cry as a child, to try to get me to laugh and cheer me up.) However, I am happy to report that his tune has changed. This has been enough of a scare for him to realise that it's time to change his ways, and start living a healthier life so that he can be around to enjoy more of it. There is lots more good stuff around the corner, and like I told him today, I want him to be around and healthy enough to enjoy his grandchildren one of these days.

So here's to my father, the first man in my life. The first man to hold me, and dry my tears, and tell me everything is going to be ok. To the man who put food in my belly, a roof over my head and clothes on my back for the first 18 years of my life. Thank you for being the best daddy you could be. I know I was a willful child at times. I know that you probably would have had an easier time raising a less girly girl. Thank you so much for being the person that you are. I hope that I have many more years to listen to your corny jokes, tease you about your fashion sense, and tell you many many many times how much I love you. You mean the world to me. Please get well soon. I can't wait to see you.



Dad and Aunt Sharon, 2006