My Dad

Yesterday was my dad's birthday and I wanted to write up a little tribute for him. Happy Birthday Dad!

You may have heard me say (or read where I have written) that my personality is the complete opposite of my mom's, and that is true. So I guess it goes without saying that I am much more like my dad.

One of my favorite memories of my childhood is reading with my dad. He would come into our rooms at night and read books to us, skimming parts he thought would be too boring. Over and over we would chant, "don't stop!," sure that we would be able to understand every word out of his mouth. We read many books this way, but none stand out in my mind more than Summer of the Monkeys. It instantly became one of our favorite books, probably because it was already one of my dad's favorites. I remember him getting choked up at the end, when the brother decides to use the monkey money to get his sister's leg fixed, and all I could think was this has got to be the best story ever written!

I am sure that my love of reading can be traced back to those nights we spent together, and I can think of nothing else I would like for my own children than to have some of their grandpa's passion for books trickle down to them. I also blame/attribute my love of sports to him, as he was (and still is) an amazing athlete.

My dad was (and I hope still is) one of my biggest fans. While my mom didn't know what a pick and roll was (still doesn't in fact, although my sister and I have tried to teach her), my dad always knew more than my basketball coach (especially if you ask him). And for being such a mild-mannered man, his voice always carried louder than anyone else in the stands. I have two vivid memories of him from this time in my life. One was after a particularly disappointing game , when I came home feeling completely dissatisfied with my performance. My mom greeted me at the door with, "what happened?," genuinely spoken in love, but NOT what I wanted to hear. After brushing her off, hoping she would get the message that I wasn't in the mood to discuss it, I found my dad in the kitchen, making french fries. Maybe it's because I'm a lot like him, but he seemed to instantly realize how I was feeling and what I needed. He looked at me for a moment, and asked, "You hungry?" I nodded, and he lowered some sliced potatoes into the hot grease. He didn't say any more, but somehow that was exactly what I needed. Those fries may not have been magic fries, but they must have been pretty special, since I remember them ten years later.

I also remember my dad and Ross, the father of another girl on our team, at the state basketball tournament. Unlike most of the parents, they weren't satisfied sitting a respectable distance away, but chose to sit right in the middle of the student section. I remember looking up at them during the boys game (which, unfortunately, always seems to draw a much larger crowd than any game I ever played in), and being amazed at what I saw. Not only were they surrounded by dozens of students from the other school, who were taunting them relentlessly, they were standing up, yelling right back at them and pointing at the scoreboard. I got the feeling that somehow they had been transported back to their own "glory days," which we were always being reminded of, and I just shook my head, hoping that they would make it out of there without inciting a riot.

There are so many other things I could tell you about him, but I think this picture says it better than I could hope to. He loves his grandkids, maybe more so than his own children even, and I can't think of any place more inviting to fall asleep than on grandpa's lap in the middle of a crowded mall at Christmas time. Especially if he was looking at me with such love in his eyes. Yep, Allie is one lucky girl. And so am I. I love you dad!