Dave and I were talking one time after I had been home to visit my parents, and I said, with some degree of surprise and self-revelation, “You know, I think I might actually be a lot like Daddy.” At which point Dave laughed really loud and said, “You think so?”
Apparently, this was not a shocking revelation to my husband, as it was to me. Why my shock? Daddy and I can drive each other jeepers. With the exception of music and shoes (he had nothing to do with the heinous ones I'm wearing in this picture), we don’t agree on much of anything. And yet our brains work the same way. He has accused me, on more than one occasion, of being “one of those wild-eyed liberals.” To which I respond, in my best Edith Bunker voice, “AH-chie!”
The strangest turnabout, since Daddy has gotten older and “extinguished” (his word for “distinguished”) is that he has developed parental amnesia: Any good character I have, I was born with or developed on my own. (As if I weren’t taught decency and compassion by both my parents.) I made good grades on my own. (Not because my parents both sacrificed to pay for school and did anything else they could to help me succeed.) I made it through two universities by myself. (Daddy was working triple shifts in a paper mill to pay my tuition.) I’ve had a great career. (See all of the above.)
On past Father’s Days, I’ve thanked my “June Bug” for all the fun stuff—the fishing trips and beach trips, the creeks waded, the Christmas trees loaded. But today I want to thank him for the hard stuff—the education provided, the confidence built, the promise of “you can do anything.”
I’m very blessed.
Happy Father’s Day, June Bug!
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