My father is the most simple, yet complex man that I know. Growing up, he always insisted on buttered popcorn at the movie theater. He would ask for extra butter; it would always kill my mother. He would then take a napkin, cover the top of the bag with it and shake. He loved buttered popcorn. He hasn’t had it in years, but I suspect it is what he misses most in his healthy days.
He is very selective in his music, yet listens to almost everything. He doesn’t like most of what I like because it’s “drug music.” Whatever that means. He loves anything with a good message, including “High School Musical.”
One of the best days of his life was years ago when he drove through my sister’s friend’s garage. He blasted the song (what’s the name of it?) that goes, “Say it loud, say it clear, something, admit we can see eye to eye.” I believe it was during Desert Storm.
My dad honks over the phone any time I tell him good news. I just went to the bathroom (gross, I know), two honks. Jason just got home, two honks.
My father and I did theater together years ago. I loved it. I’d go back in a second if I could.
My father was there for me when I needed him most. He would drive me back and forth to Columbus, Ohio at a moment’s notice, holding my hand the whole way if I let him. And I did. He went to great lengths to make me smile. Still does.
My dad has reunited with my mom as one parental unit, despite the ongoing roll vs. biscuit debate. It means everything to me.
My father has two cats names Darryl. He rescued my dog Adam, but he no longer has custody of him. He is better suited as a Cat owner.
My father calls me Rooney Balls. Jason’s name is Bones. We’re not sure why, but it works.
My Dad still can’t believe the Post Office. He truly feels that it is the most amazing thing is the world. “For less than a dollar, I can send you a letter,” he always says.
He loves Seinfeld and MASH.
If I announced a shot gun wedding , he would love it - he wants a grandchild badly. He is superb with children.
When my Dad used to get dressed in the morning, he needed me to throw his shirt on his arm. The shirt wouldn’t fit otherwise.
My Dad once dressed up as a gorilla and rode a bike through my elementary school. Then he read “The Gorilla Did It” to the whole class.
My father chews a pack of gum a day. He swears by this gum. He carries a different gum for those who want a chew.
My father sends me a piece of mail every single day of the week (not Sunday) just to let me know that he is thinking about me. Last week I received empty tooth paste boxes and a photograph of my parents from the 70s. One is in the trash, the other is by my bed. I also wake up to between one and twenty voice mails from my dad every morning. He’s typically singing.
My father knows how to forgive people. He is wonderful at apologizing. Neither of these statements were true just ten years ago.
My dad gets better looking with age. He asks me how old he looks about twice a visit home. Fifty-five. Always.
More people have told me how amazing my father is than he would ever imagine. People stop me - some I’ve never met - to make sure that I know. I know, I know.
My dad would never leave Cleveland again if he didn’t have to. He loves it there. We’re only six hours a part, but I miss him tonight. Some nights more than others.
