If you met my Daddy once, you’d known him for years.
He had a booming, genuine laugh, even over the smallest amusement, and his combination of charisma, style, and goofy boyish charm were one-of-a-kind. Looking at this picture, you’d never know that about him.
But this is the perfect image of the man he was to me.
My first clear and fully formed memory of him was the day he took the training wheels off my Strawberry Shortcake bike and held onto the back of it while I pedaled circles around my Granddaddy’s garage. All quickly followed by me shrieking at the top of my lungs when I looked up to see him standing in front of me, arms crossed proudly, chin turned up, beaming at how far I’d gone before I realized I was doing it by myself. (He had to save me from crashing into the wall immediately thereafter.)
One Christmas, he bought us shiny silver Mickey Mouse roller skates and taught us to use them in that same garage, so he was pretty tickled to hear that I’d picked myself another pair in holographic pink just last year.
When my half of an otherwise impenetrable, sniper-accurate, middle school 2B/SS duo unfortunately couldn’t bat worth a lick, he spent a whole weekend with me at the College Street batting cages, even though he regularly pulled 16 hour shifts at a refinery. The very next game, I knocked the daylights out of a ball clear into left field, and when the coach asked if I “pulled that out of my back pocket,” I smartly quipped back, “Nope, my Daddy taught me.”
This past September, when other people’s doubts left me questioning whether setting off alone for 2 weeks in places I’d never been during the middle of a pandemic was really prudent, as usual, his words were simple but exactly what I needed to hear: “If you want to go, baby, GO.” All throughout my trip and when I made my way back home, he never stopped telling me how proud he was. After a year of dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, here I was again, doing it by myself.
(He also just outright bought the VHS tape of “Labyrinth” from the rental store for me & my sister because we re-rented it every week anyway.)
The same man who did all of that had roses delivered to us at school every birthday and Valentine’s Day, and a dozen waiting after each of our ballet recitals, bit parts in local theatre productions, and solo musical competitions too.
He took me to choose my first pet: a newly hatched parakeet that he let me name Adam. (Pretty sure he knew that was the name of the boy down the street that I had a little crush on, but he rolled with it anyway, even though the bird and our love for him far outlived the crush.)
Our house and my heart were filled with music because I was his ride-or-die on almost weekly trips to Sunrise Records, Circuit City, and Best Buy, combing the racks for new releases and old classics on any and every format. Afterward, we’d hurry home to blare his newest purchase, fresh out of the bag, on our ridiculously oversized combo speakers/vinyl/CD/dual cassette/radio system— assuming he didn’t pop it straight into the car deck first.
I am brave and adventurous because of him. I am compassionate and kind because of him. I know my worth because of him. And all sorts of music runs through my veins because of him.
But I couldn’t have been less prepared to end this year without him.
3 weeks ago, I was making plans with him. 2 weeks ago, he reassured me with heart emojis. One week ago, he went on a ventilator. By Monday, he was gone.
I am so lucky to have had a single moment as his and to have called him mine. We should have had so many more.
𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗟 𝗘𝗨𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗧𝗢𝗡
𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗘: 𝗙𝗲𝗯𝗿𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆 𝟭𝟯, 𝟭𝟵𝟱𝟯
𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗦𝗘𝗧: 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟭𝟰, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟬