My mom - although by most definitions, she is just like the "no more wire hanger's" mom - was somewhat militant and organized about keeping folders of my schoolwork and other things from birth to college. Each folder is labeled with the year and stuffed with plenty of things I'd long forgotten about. Poems crumpled up into the trash were scooped out, smoothed out, and hidden away. Notes to friends, assignments I passed and failed, and brochures of places I visited during school. As nuts as my mom is (and she is), this is a cool thing.

And somewhere in-between a book report and a playbook with "I heart Theboyoftheweek" written all over it, was a note from my dad. It was about a track meet I had that day.

And you must know, I hated particpating in all things athletic. I was really, really good at cheering those on who could run, like my friend, Julie. She kicked ass at it and I was 100% cheering her on. But me? A big fat NO. I was really awful at it all. In basketball, I'd be too busy trying to remember how to run and dribble, and would forget how the play we were running. In volleyball, my elbows were double-jointed, so when I'd go to pass the ball, it would fly off my right arm into the crowd. And running? Oh HELL no. Unless someone was chasing me, it certainly wasn't for me.

The note that morning from my dad listed off five things at the track meet he thought I'd be good at, in order, with a bit of advice to the side for each one. The first one was the relay because "it's the most fun". The last was the high jump, and he added, "If you don't let the fear of the bar mess with your head". Um, yeah. That fear was certainly there.

He would leave these notes for me on the breakfast counter. If he had to leave for work early, it would be sitting by my cereal bowl. If it was something he wanted me to know during the day, it would be left in the same place in the afternoon when I came home from school. It was a rare occasion that he wasn't at a track meet, either (presumably to watch the other more althetic kids actually be, oh, athletic - ha!).

My dad was an incredible athlete growing up and into college. He ended up playing college football and starting his senior year. I know he wanted his kids to really be into sports, too. I remember countless nights practicing basketball with him in the Shop building behind our house. I tried, I really did. I'd go out and turn on New Kids On the Block (eeek!) and rock it OUT. Sadly for him, it just wasn't my thing. And the day I told him I didn't want to play basketball at school anymore just crushed him.

In a small town, there are only a few things you can do to be involved, and those are:

1. sports
2. sports
3. band

I think, in all honesty, my dad was afraid I'd be sulking the halls with no means of making friends in a club. I hadn't yet figured out I liked drama, so all I had was music.

My music teacher, I think, asked me to sing the National Anthem before one of the basketball games that year with a friend of mine. Now, this was something I was good at and confident doing. This was something that didn't freak me out; I could sing in front of 200 people, but I couldn't run down the court.

While rummaging through this same pile of old papers and such, I found the video recorded of my first time singing the National Anthem acapella at that basketball game. My dad had the video camera. And although in general his movie taking skills weren't too hot, this time he was really shaking the camera. He was a nervous dad!! And when we finished, he yelled out, "GOOD JOB, HDW!!" and let out a sigh of relief.

I'd found my niche and my daddy was proud.

I think these little reminders ... what, 15 plus years later! ... really help continue to remind me of who he was and what he was, and most importantly, really, who I was to him. It's not that I've forgotten, but it's nice to be reminded.

Like hearing his voice coming through the speakers in my living room. I closed my eyes and I could have sworn he was right ... here ...

Labels: daddy, memories