All Sparkling and Bright

When my dad used to hear the lyrics, “You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold…” and “You’re the treasure I cherish all sparkling and bright…” I bet he didn’t think that 40 years later I’d be sparkling in the Moonlight instead of at the end of the rainbow.  But, whether I’m the Spirit of Christmas, the star on the tree, or the 40-year-old Easter Bunny to mommy and he, I’m still Daddy’s little girl.

The hubby and I were reminiscing the other day, about my life-pre-marriage and the adjustments that had to take place, mostly for my dad. Until Tom came along, I relied on both of my parents for many things.  But when it came to certain things, I solely relied on my dad: loosening the light bulb in one of my apartment lamps, twisted in so tightly it couldn’t be changed; years worth of car problems; the darn window that each spring couldn’t be opened without a little manly strength – you know, issues only a dad could help his young adult daughter fix and repair.  Then along came the hubby.

Sure I had other fellas in my life long before my late twenties, but looking back now, none were really the Mr. Fix-It types.  Dad still came to the rescue.  Once the hubby entered the picture and was around daily to fix anything that was broken, we both noticed that my dad’s spirit was broken a little, too.  We often discussed that it seemed as if dear Dad felt replaced.  (He should have felt relieved, not being called in the middle of the day to drive 20 miles to un-stick an old window).

Today is Father’s Day, so this little bit of reminiscing is in true order from Daddy’s little girl.  The older I get, the more and more and I look like my dad.  I have his freckly arms, his strangely shaped feet, some say I have his eyes, and all will say I have his sense of humor and most certainly his silly “if I laugh too hard I can’t breathe” laugh.  This is the man, who taught me “interesting” metaphors, like:  “It’s blacker than the inside of a boot outside.” 

I stand the same way he does, or so I’m told, with my knees turned towards each other, feet wide, and bum just slightly pushed out for balance.  This is the man who taught my step-kids to fish. I’m not sure they would have ever experienced the excitement of baiting a hook and watching a fish flop around on the beach sand had their Grandpa Cec not been in their lives as small children.  He survived arriving home one summer day with the entire front yard being dug up by the Water Works Department, yes, because of me.  He also survived driving up towards our house only to see the bushes, trees, mailbox, and every other yard item toilet papered by my crazy teenage friends.  He comforted me through every break up.  He released my death grip on the chair I was occupying on the night my first engagement was called off.  He replaced the chair wrung with his own hand and let me grip him instead.

Instead of being replaced, we like to think that dear Dad gained the son he always wanted.  These days both dad and the hubby work on projects together, whether it’s building a gazebo on my parent’s back porch (copycats!), running cable wire up to the small kitchen television just so my mother can watch her precious cooking shows, or any other litany of household projects, they work together as a team. Of course, Dad has passed down some of his fatherly responsibilities to the hubby, including buttering my bread and cutting my steaks and pork chops (although during some family meals, Dad slips back into old times, ripping my plate from me as he watches me struggle with a hunk of meat). 

So, even at 40, I’m still proud to be Daddy’s little girl, especially because these days I’m proud to be called “little” anytime possible!