I was digging through a stack of photos today (while I should be packing for our trip tomorrow, but whatever) and came across this photo:



The picture has three of my very favorite things:

1. My dad
2. My doll
3. My (new) cowboy boots

You'll notice the HOT outfit I have on. And by "hot", I mean, "My mom made my clothes". It was most certainly a rarity to find Little HDW in anything other than that ensemble. I would trudge around in the muck and mud on the farm, behind my dad. He was dirty, so I should be dirty, too.

I also found this picture, taken the night before my high school graduation:



The father of a daughter is nothing but a high-class hostage. A father turns a stony face to his sons, berates them, shakes his antlers, paws the ground, snorts, runs them off into the underbrush, but when his daughter puts her arm over his shoulder and says, "Daddy, I need to ask you something," he is a pat of butter in a hot frying pan. ~Garrison Keillor

Labels: daddy, love thursday

Earlier this morning, Bug and I were in a hit and run car accident. The details are really not important, except to say a teenage kid ran a red light at top speed, and on my green light, my car hit the back end of his. And with that force, it bumped his car up onto a curb, and he continued to drive off extra fast.

And I'm obviously not happy he hit me. And I'm not happy he had his music up and wasn't paying attention to what he was doing or where he was going.

This is the front end of my car:



You can see the hood is jacked up, light is messed up, bumper has been assaulted. There's a line of bumper missing, not sure what that was from. And it's 'just a car', yes. And this car can be fixed right up.

But, MAN! I had a three-year-old in the backseat. What if he'd been hurt? What if we'd both been injured? And the kid just drove away.

HE DROVE AWAY. I'm sure he was scared, absolutely. You own up to that stuff, though. You do. I would have commended him mightily for pulling over to see if we were okay. And the parents? I hope it's their car. I hope they see it was fucked up this morning and call him on it, as I know my parents would have if it'd been me.

When I was on the phone with my insurance company - and they asked if there were 'any other passengers in my car other than my son', I said, "Apparently quite a few guardian angels".

So, here's where I'd like to thank mine.




Thanks for keeping us .....


... safe and sound this morning.

Labels: angels watching over me every move I make, bumper cars, daddy, the bug and mommy

Growing up, Fourth of July wasn't really a holiday for my family. Wheat harvest was one of our major sources of income (also corn and cattle, among a few other things). When late June/early July rolled in, other people were having BBQ's at the lake, and we were packing up lunches and dinners for our dad and the hired help, taking it out to the field.

When we were younger, we'd go for rides on the combine with dad or grandpa, and maybe take a truck ride full of grain to be weighed at the CO-OP with our uncle. I'd watch my baby brother try and 'be big' like the 'big guys' and step over the wheat stubble in his little boots. His hat seed hat on, chewing the grain to make 'wheat gum', pretending his liked it because the 'big guys' did. Sometimes on the Fourth, if we stayed out late enough, we could see the fireworks off in the distance.

As the size of our farming operation grew, so did our need to have custom cutters. We maintained a relationship with one family out of Kansas for more than thirty years. They'd come into town with beautiful pieces of equipment, and big black trucks, pickups, and grain carts. They'd stagger themselves in line in the field, go around in pattern of the field. Truly, it was a beautiful sight. I have many memory sitting on the back of a pickup truck, eating my dinner, watching them go against the sunset. (We are still in touch with this family; they are like family to us)




You know, you think those times will go on forever. You think that eventually, you'll be taking your little boy to the field and helping him climb up to a combine into the waiting arms of your dad. You think he'll get a chance to sit behind the steering wheel of a combine and watch the wheat fold and buckle underneath, and tossed into the back. You just don't think those times will ever stop. And sometimes, I just wanna say, "Damn the world for stopping and making me get off that ride; it was too much fun". If anything, it makes me really savor the moments now. They are too fleeting when you get right down to it all.

This is a picture of me in the wheat field with my dad. And it is my all-time favorite photo of me with my dad, and I know I've posted it before. I love seeing the storm rolling in, seeing him look and dressed just the way I remember him. I can close my eyes and be right in this moment and that makes me so happy.



"I am a miser of my memories of you
And will not spend them."
~Witter Bynner, "Coins"

Labels: daddy, fourth of july, love thursday a day early, wheat harvest

Labels: daddy, happy father's day

Good Friday means a lot of things, to me.

It starts and ends with my dad, fourteen years ago. I learned the true meaning of love, faith, support on this day. And only fourteen years later, does the real gravity of what you did really hit home to me. Especially now, as a parent myself.

So, thank you, Dad.

Thanks for offering me a hand back up again.

Love you.

Labels: daddy, good friday

Eek!

It was twelve years ago yesterday that my dad died. I didn't know what to post today. I've done a lot of posts about him.

And then it occurred to me - I found a stack of letters sent to us after he died, from friends and family, and this one in particular was something I felt compelled to share.

It's written by his cousin Bruce, a month or so after Dad died:

"Dear Family,

I'm sorry I'm such a lousy letter writer. Please know my prayers are a lot more consistent, and those will be much more frequent in the future.

It was a shock to me. HDW'sDad was so solid, so strong, so natural as force for good. He has always been one of my heroes.

Growing up, I watch him combine with Cousin Dan to do impossible feats on the playing field. I knew I was a witness to one of the greats - because he lived the whole life; body, mind and spirit.

Once in Geometry class, he actually told Mr. Berry that he hadn't a clue how Mr. Berry got that answer. As it turned out, neither did Mr. Berry, but the lesson for me was: never be afraid to admit your honest ignorance AND never accept blame for being ignorant when you are giving it your best shot.

I think his legendary status came from his will-power. No matter what the task, he focused on it and gave it his best effort: practice, planning, preparing and a ton of determination. Nobody bats 1.000 for the season, but I don't remember HD'sDad ever striking out - perhaps because he was my hero; but I believe it's because he always came back. He was determined to meet the ball with every fiber of his being. He could not be beaten. The perfect game? I saw a dozen. More. He always came back because he believed in making every move he could, standing on his beliefs, stating when he knew and what he didn't, and running the path he knew to be fair and honest and straightforward.

In this, fate seems to be trying to win by calling the game, a shocking tactic, but HD'sDad wins again, because he leaves us all a much better world for having seen and felt his living of life. I want more, and someday, Thank Jesus, I'll have it in heaven. Meanwhile, I know HD'sDad is hollering at me to step up to the plate.

Your cousin, Bruce"

Cousin Bruce pictured at left with my dad (my dad being the taller of the two). They had gone fishing, and you can somewhat make out their 'catches' in the middle of the stick they're holding.








"And when we're gone long gone
The only thing that will have mattered
Is the love that we shared
And the way that we cared
When we're gone, long gone ..."

"When We're Gone, Long Gone" - Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Ronstadt

Labels: daddy, love thursday, old letter

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