When I was three
and four and five, I had a knack for parading about in my favorite blue
leotard, white stockings and black ballet shoes. I’m not sure if I thought I was a ballerina
or a fairy princess but it doesn’t matter because that’s not the part I remember,
really. Moreover, I remember the fact
that my dad let me. I slept in those
shoes; I walked outside in those shoes: I’m pretty sure that entire outfit was
adhered to my body, with little girl glue.
If I could get away with it, today, at 33, I’d probably parade about in
the same outfit- only I’d add a tutu.
Probably one with sparkles on it.
He’s been a
constant and I consider myself the luckiest woman alive to have such a man as a
Father. My introduction to wine was
picking varied fruits, with my dad, so he could ferment all the goodness in his
own masterpiece. My first sip of liqueur
was of the berried fashion around the age of 11 or 12 when that pesky
introduction in to womanhood got the better of both of us, really. My dad’s old-school and bloody hell- that
tonic proved a miracle. That was a
treasured secret between us both for some time.
If I had to, I could change a tire on a car
because of my Dad. I am self-sufficient
because I have a dad who encouraged and forced me to pave a way for
myself.
I am a traveler
because of my Dad. I’ve a deep and thorough love-affair with
Paris because my Dad and I stood before the Eiffel Tower at midnight, watching
the lights fire up the tower in to a blaze of romanticism. Yes, effectively, I love Paris because of my
Dad.
I’m a reader and
lover of history and theology because my Dad’s taken the time to discuss, with
me, the possibility that such a man as King Arthur may have taken seat at a
very real Round Table. Discussions
around the most suitable time-frame and Arthur’s training as a Roman soldier before
heading home to Britain is one I’ve only had with my Dad.
He’s let me spew
the blasphemous notion that Mary Magdelene and Jesus may have married- and he
doesn’t deem me as ridiculous in this fancy.
I rather prefer this story to what may otherwise be a long-held
traditional truth and I admire him for giving me that freedom where other may
chastise me.
My dad is a
quiet, level-headed man, driven by reason and logic. He is also warm, kind and the epitome of
calm. He loves my mother and has loved
her, I believe, since the first day they met.
And I like to think of theirs as a romance not often found in this
time. He’s also the man who let me put
pink barrettes in his hair, polish his cheeks with rouge and paint his nails
with a glistening clear polish. Oh my,
how I was proud of my efforts in those days.
He’s still the
first person I call when my car breaks down.
He’s still the first person I call when my head spins in to history mode
and I suddenly find I’m unable to remember when Hadrian’s Wall was
constructed.
And what some
folks don’t know is that this man was my second chance. He’s my step-father but I’m not sure I’ve
ever really thought of him as that far-removed from my own notion of what a
father is. He’s taken me as his own,
loved me as his own. When you get old
and ponder your beginnings, it becomes hard to find words that match your
gratitude. My Dad is nothing short of a
miracle in my life and what I feel for him, the magnitude of my gratefulness
for him, isn’t something I can put together with a limited character range of
26 symbols. It’s profound, somewhere far
beyond that, I suppose.
Really, Dad, I
love you for who you are, for the path you chose to walk with me and for the
support you show me every day. Blood may
run thicker than water but love runs thicker than blood- and that’s what you
are to me- fearless love.
Happy
Dad’s Day, Papi. I wish every girl was
as fortunate as myself to grow up with a man like you at her side.
