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Daddy 2004-06-20, 1:59 a.m. A father is always making his baby into a little woman. And when she is a woman, he turns her back again. - Enid Bagnold There are certain things I will always identify with my father, such as Mountain Dew, plain-scented shaving cream in a can, thick safety glasses, blue work shirts and Levi's, Redwing boots, and pickup trucks. Cherry pie with vanilla ice cream, a worn black leather wallet, always asking if his dress shirts matched the pants he'd chosen to wear with them, thick salt-and-pepper hair parted on the same side for more than fifty years that shows no signs of receding. Farmer tans, an animal lover, mowing the grass on Saturday afternoons, cleaning the snow off everyone's cars at the crack of dawn so that we wouldn't be late for school/work/practice. A registered Republican, grilling outside, shoe polish, the smell of baked mostaccioli in the oven when we came home from school, ice cubes clinking in a highball glass filled with lemonade, and a million memories that are nearly twenty-five years long. I remember one hot summer afternoon when I was about three years old, sitting on my father's lap while we took turns reading to each other and sharing a Mountain Dew in a glass bottle. I used to swing my legs over the arm of his chair so that my baby sister couldn't sit with us, and I grew even more protective of my time with my dad when my brother finally arrived. We spent many afternoons and evenings together, watching television, learning how to use the new computer, cheering for the Bears. My dad was responsible for my introduction to technology, sports, and caffeine before I even started preschool. I remember one rainy day in July when my dad came home from the fields hours earlier than expected with small bags of M&M's for all three of us. When it rained in the summertime, he always said it rained M&M's, because rain meant a more profitable crop and he could more easily afford to bring home treats for us then. He also told us that the green M&M's were bad for our eyesight, so we always opened the small black bags and carefully sorted out the green candies to give to Dad. I remember a family vacation to Florida, when my sister Punk got so carsick on the way home that she threw up all over the van (and all over Scoot), and all of us were so tired and crabby and ready to get home that it seemed like the entire vacation had been a disaster. My dad saved the day, by finding an ice cream shop and putting me in charge of Punk and Scoot for the very first time while he and my mom cleaned up the mess. I felt very important, and I remember him telling me not to boss them around, but that I was responsible and in charge and he trusted me. I remember feeling like I would burst with pride that afternoon in northern Georgia. I remember how my dad worried when I went on my first real date, and how I caught him watching out the front windows when my first boyfriend and I pulled up to the house that evening. I remember the look on his face during my speeches at my high school and college graduations. I remember the enthusiastic photography that took place when I went to prom. I remember him telling me that his father had passed away, and how he hugged me for the first time in years when I couldn't stop the heaving sobs. I'll never forget the weekend in August of 1998 when my parents dropped me off at college for the very first time. I remember fighting back tears and he wouldn't quite look me in the eye when he waved good-bye that day. And I remember the same thing happening when I moved to Kansas City four years later. My dad doesn't type very well, so he'd send me e-mails that were just a few sentences long, talking trash about sports, asking for suggestions for holiday gifts for my mother, telling me what he'd made for dinner the night before – and receiving e-mails from him made my heart ache for home. I also remember the things that my dad taught me – we never had much money, so honesty and strong character were incredibly important to him. He also taught me the value of a dollar and the basics of cooking. He never finished college, so he emphasized the need for education a great deal – I didn't know that going to college was optional until I was in middle school. He taught me the importance of belonging to a caring church, proper car maintenance, spreadsheets, and the value of my musical talents. My dad is an incredible man – his devotion to my mom through thick and thin has helped me to see what I want in my future relationships, and his distinct relationships with all three of his children are definitely appreciated and meaningful. He works hard to provide for his family and he loves us all so much that you can see it in his eyes when he's talking about us. There's something special about my dad, and I wish I could properly put it into words. I admire that he's a good person, the kind of man that would do anything for his family and friends, who's a hard worker and one of the most honest and dedicated people on earth. His strong faith, his work ethic, his commitment to his wife of twenty-seven years, his willingness to give up self-employment and farming and completely change careers in his late forties…he's special and he's funny and he's nice to everyone and he loves animals and he can make me fall over laughing and frustrate me beyond belief in the same five-minute conversation. He's a good dad, and I love him forever. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express. - Joseph Addison
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