Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
R.O.T.
I have been sitting here, eating ice cream, musing over this particular post, trying to focus on a good opening sentence. And while I'm not quite sure how to start, I know (and by this I mean the kind of knowing that you know with all your heart) exactly what I want to say.
Dear Husband had to work late tonight and so Cheeks and I commuted home together. We were lucky enough to get a seat on the train, and passed the time reading books and drawing pictures on my iPad. As we exited the station I saw my father standing there at the entrance waiting for us. I hadn't told him what time we were leaving work but he had headed down to the station anyway to meet us. As we walked home together, I got to thinking about the many journeys my father and I have taken together. There is a special bond between this father and this daughter.
When I was very small, Dad was my nightly bedtime story and ride through the "spooky spooky jungle" (really just the hallway) on the way to bed. We traveled greater distances still, as we roamed the wild prairies and survived the long winter in Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Little House" series. I would beg for just one more chapter, and most nights he would oblige.
One time, Dad traveled on Santa's sleigh. The Christmas when I was nine, Dad was sent to the North Pole to assemble a three story, Victorian, approximately 7,000 piece dollhouse kit. He managed to build it and put it under the tree with a bow just in time for Christmas morning. And, like everything he has ever built, it was perfect.
When I was in high school, he was a willing chauffeur, driving me to countless activities. And when I was troubled with school or friends or some other adolescent silliness, he would put the leash on our family dog and invite me for a long walk through the park near our house.
When I was in college, he logged hundreds of miles on the family station wagon, driving me home for long weekends, or coming down just for the day, so he and my mother could take me out for a grilled cheese sandwich at the Biltmore restaurant.
And at my wedding, he drove me to the church in his blue pickup truck. He put down an aisle of drop cloths from the house to the truck, so that I wouldn't get my dress wet in the snow. I was proud to have him walk me down the aisle, but I cherish the memory of driving with him to the church.
When Dear Husband and I moved to Guatemala City, I remember showing Dad that small sliver of a country on a map, and imagining myself transported hundreds of miles away from home. Dad visited us there and braved the jungles of Tikal and Guatemalan air transport (ever flown on a propeller plane, the reeeally loud kind?). He traveled farther still, thousands of airline miles to visit us in Eastern Europe.
And now we are all back together in the United States. And I am a mother with two girls who adore their grandfather and I carry my kids to bed and sing "spooky jungle." I have more gray hairs than I would care to admit. My little house is about a mile away from the house I grew up in, the house my father built. The distance between us is short.
I love you, Dad.
Dear Husband had to work late tonight and so Cheeks and I commuted home together. We were lucky enough to get a seat on the train, and passed the time reading books and drawing pictures on my iPad. As we exited the station I saw my father standing there at the entrance waiting for us. I hadn't told him what time we were leaving work but he had headed down to the station anyway to meet us. As we walked home together, I got to thinking about the many journeys my father and I have taken together. There is a special bond between this father and this daughter.
When I was very small, Dad was my nightly bedtime story and ride through the "spooky spooky jungle" (really just the hallway) on the way to bed. We traveled greater distances still, as we roamed the wild prairies and survived the long winter in Laura Ingalls Wilder's "Little House" series. I would beg for just one more chapter, and most nights he would oblige.
One time, Dad traveled on Santa's sleigh. The Christmas when I was nine, Dad was sent to the North Pole to assemble a three story, Victorian, approximately 7,000 piece dollhouse kit. He managed to build it and put it under the tree with a bow just in time for Christmas morning. And, like everything he has ever built, it was perfect.
When I was in high school, he was a willing chauffeur, driving me to countless activities. And when I was troubled with school or friends or some other adolescent silliness, he would put the leash on our family dog and invite me for a long walk through the park near our house.
When I was in college, he logged hundreds of miles on the family station wagon, driving me home for long weekends, or coming down just for the day, so he and my mother could take me out for a grilled cheese sandwich at the Biltmore restaurant.
And at my wedding, he drove me to the church in his blue pickup truck. He put down an aisle of drop cloths from the house to the truck, so that I wouldn't get my dress wet in the snow. I was proud to have him walk me down the aisle, but I cherish the memory of driving with him to the church.
When Dear Husband and I moved to Guatemala City, I remember showing Dad that small sliver of a country on a map, and imagining myself transported hundreds of miles away from home. Dad visited us there and braved the jungles of Tikal and Guatemalan air transport (ever flown on a propeller plane, the reeeally loud kind?). He traveled farther still, thousands of airline miles to visit us in Eastern Europe.
And now we are all back together in the United States. And I am a mother with two girls who adore their grandfather and I carry my kids to bed and sing "spooky jungle." I have more gray hairs than I would care to admit. My little house is about a mile away from the house I grew up in, the house my father built. The distance between us is short.
I love you, Dad.
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