Daddy's Girl

He didn't really want a baby. But my mother finally won him over to the idea after five years of marriage. When I was born, he called his sister in Texas, and was crying unintelligibly. She thought something had happened to Mama. Did something happen to Cindy? (No) Oh no...the baby. (No.) Well what's wrong? She's just..so..beautiful.

He lived for me after that. When he'd come home, I'd run into his arms, help him take off his work boots, and climb in - my little legs tiny in the big shoes. He worked a lot. His regular job, and carpentry work on the side, so my mother could stay home with me. When he was home, I wanted to be with him, and sat outside playing in the sawdust. I had my own little red toolbox. Hammer, nails, level. If he was working on a car, I was sitting on the ground next to him. Handing him the tools he needed. Holding the container of bolts and nuts. I did everything Daddy did. If anyone was Daddy's girl, it was me. He let me be with him, even though I probably made things take four times as long. He was patient with me. Always answering my thousands of questions.

He'd take me outside, in the woods, showing me the tracks in the ground and telling me which animals made them. Talked about the different types of birds and plants. About how male birds are brighter colored than females so that they can draw predators away from the babies. We'd squat down and look at the ants carrying things into their hills. He'd pick me up to look at eggs or baby birds in a nest. Once, a bird built a nest in the tree outside the laundry room window, and he took me in one afternoon in a storm. Showed me how the mother bird was clinging to the nest, sheltering the babies with her wings. The tree swayed violently, but she stayed still. Wet. Covering her little ones. He ingrained in me a sense of wonder for the natural world that I still hold dear.

When we weren't outside working, he was playing with me. Barbies. My Little Pony. Reading a book. Tea parties. Laid down in my bed with me at night when I was too scared to sleep alone.

When I was five, my parents split up for the second and final time. He was so sad. He loved my mama to distraction. And me. I remember the day we left. He took me on one of our nature walks. Crying. I remember picking up a feather on the ground. Gave it to him because things like that usually made him smile. Nearly 30 years later, he still carries that feather in his wallet.

Throughout my unstable childhood with my mother's erratic moving and multiple abusive husbands, my father was my anchor. He always reassured me. Always stayed in the same home, even though his new wife wanted to move. My home, my room...they were the same. There was one constant. He sacrificed so much for me. So I could go to school. So I could have the things that he didn't have growing up. We didn't have a lot of money, but I never missed out on anything, because he made it happen.

My father came from a very poor family. Poor, as in not enough food to go around a lot of the time. When he was eighteen, he moved out. Got a job. Worked. Saved. He's worked all of his life. Uneducated, but one of the smartest people I know. He is successful now. Wants for nothing. He's worked very hard to get where he is, and I admire him for that more than I can express.

He is a manly man. Very tough. At almost sixty, he could probably win a fight against a man half his age. The thing that not everyone sees is how sensitive he is. The way he coos at a little baby. The way he helps people in need. The way he can cry. Express emotion. Feel things.

He taught me how to love. How love is shown in actions. In the little, day-to-day things we do. In little presents that he would buy me, from a new book to a pencil to just having me a soda and candy bar in the truck when he'd pick me up from school on Fridays. When I was older, it was by having money hidden in my car so that if I called him with an emergency, I wouldn't be stranded. Keeping my oil changed. Taking me shopping. Giving of his time and resources to someone he loved. Giving, giving, giving. Always giving. That's what love should be. On both sides. Because when both give fully and freely, no one wants. He is the standard by which I measure a man, a father, and depth of love. They're some really big shoes to fill. And I don't know if anyone ever could.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. And Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there.