I’m tired…my lower back is hurting, I’m feeling sweaty despite the chill, but I’m happy. It’s Thanksgiving night, had a fabulous dinner and just got back from the 7th Annual Bob and Beth Thanksgiving Bonding session.
My father is a man of few words…I can’t be 100% positive, but I am fairly sure that the words “I love you” have never escaped my father’s lips. In my house, a pat on the head, or a one armed hug passed for affection from my father. That’s what I grew up with, so I know nothing different. Open, full on affection came from my mother, the more reserved, quiet affection came from my father. That’s just the way it was, and is, in my family. When people asked how old my sister and I were, my father would hold his hand up to our approximate height and said, “about that high”. I have a mug shot that our dad coordinated for show and tell for my sister. Our eye color was listed and my hazel eyes are listed as brown. I got my first tattoo for about 14 years ago and my father’s first comment on any ink was about two years ago, asking me how long I had my 6th. I once completely overhauled my look, cutting off about six inches of hair, perming my straight hair and changing the color. About two weeks later he asked my mother if something was different about me.
Ok, despite having been a detective, details, when it came to his family, were never his strong suit. But I knew he was there when it counted. He stood in the back of my band concerts, waiting for my solo to be over before dashing back to work. He sat in the corner, embarrassed as hell, when I had breast-reduction surgery when I was 17. I remember a Mother’s Day, I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8, and my sister had decreed that we were each chipping in $5 a piece for a present for mom. I didn’t have it and burst into tears. My father, somewhat uncomfortable, sat with me, rubbing my back and telling me it was OK, he would give the money.
I always say I didn’t start to have a relationship with my father until I was old enough to drink legally. On my 21st birthday, Dad took me to the bar he frequented, introducing me as his “Demon-crat” daughter, but I proudly hopped up onto the bar stool and ordered a beer. I felt comfortable enough that outside of the church, during a break in the rehearsal for my sister’s wedding, I was able to stomp down the steps of the church and ask him for a light. His only reaction was to make sure my paternal grandmother didn’t see me smoking, despite the fact that this was the first time he ever saw me smoke.
He isn’t all that great words at times, kind of like me, unknowingly and unintentionally putting his foot in his mouth, much like I do from time to time. He once jokingly called me “piggy”, not realizing that for a woman that was a sensitive spot. He’s said things in jest that have upset my mother, and when the tears have appeared in her eyes and she’s left the room, he’s looked at me and said “What did I do?” Yeah, I know where I get that from. But he’s a good man. He joined the Marine Corps at the height of the Vietnam War and to this day does not like to talk about the fact that he was not shipped off to the battlefront. He will always contribute to a cause, giving of his time and resources quietly to help a friend or co-worker in need. He only visited my niece when she was in the NICU one or two times. We found out later that he would break down in tears at the office when asked how she was. It was too hard for him to be there at the hospital, knowing that he couldn’t fix her or make her strong. I admire that more than he will ever know.
Tonight was the 7th year in a row that I’ve helped dad set up the barricades outside of WalMart, making sure that the crowds that will appear before the store opens are orderly. He could delegate the task, but he wants to make sure the job is done right – that the lines are set up so nobody gets hurt in a push to the door. I don’t even recall why I volunteered to help that first year, but every year, rain or shine, with help or none, we go out to set up the barricades. No deep talks, barely any conversation. Just the two of us, walking from point A to point B setting up the wooden “horsies” (as I used to call them) in straight lines.
This year the store was open, so we had to wait until after dinner to go out. We had our usual “make fun of the idiots” barbs, watching the people who pull up and park their cars despite the unnaturally empty parking log, surprised that the store isn’t open on Thanksgiving night. We drove back, in silence, comfortable in knowing that some things don’t need to be said.
I am thankful this Thanksgiving night. I am thankful that I have a full (if large) belly, a roof over my head, and two rambunctious pups. I am thankful that I have a great family – mom who I can share just about anything with, dad who will always be there for me even if he doesn’t say it, my sister who will support me without fail, my brother-in-law who is the protective older brother I never had but always wished for, my niece Tara who just may be the love of my life, my grandparents who attended every event that they could. I’m thankful I reconnected with so many old friends, Jenn, Sherri, Heather, Renee, Jeff, Suzanne – the list goes on. I’m thankful for the new friends I’ve made this year and I’m thankful for the friends who have remained in my life. This list could go on with friends and family who are too innumerable to name. To all of you, friends and family, thank you for loving me, for being in my life, and for accepting me without fail. I am thankful for all of you.
P.S. I’m joining my friend and fellow blogger Heather sending my prayers and thoughts to the people of Mumbai. She puts it much better than I here in her blog.
My father is a man of few words…I can’t be 100% positive, but I am fairly sure that the words “I love you” have never escaped my father’s lips. In my house, a pat on the head, or a one armed hug passed for affection from my father. That’s what I grew up with, so I know nothing different. Open, full on affection came from my mother, the more reserved, quiet affection came from my father. That’s just the way it was, and is, in my family. When people asked how old my sister and I were, my father would hold his hand up to our approximate height and said, “about that high”. I have a mug shot that our dad coordinated for show and tell for my sister. Our eye color was listed and my hazel eyes are listed as brown. I got my first tattoo for about 14 years ago and my father’s first comment on any ink was about two years ago, asking me how long I had my 6th. I once completely overhauled my look, cutting off about six inches of hair, perming my straight hair and changing the color. About two weeks later he asked my mother if something was different about me.
Ok, despite having been a detective, details, when it came to his family, were never his strong suit. But I knew he was there when it counted. He stood in the back of my band concerts, waiting for my solo to be over before dashing back to work. He sat in the corner, embarrassed as hell, when I had breast-reduction surgery when I was 17. I remember a Mother’s Day, I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8, and my sister had decreed that we were each chipping in $5 a piece for a present for mom. I didn’t have it and burst into tears. My father, somewhat uncomfortable, sat with me, rubbing my back and telling me it was OK, he would give the money.
I always say I didn’t start to have a relationship with my father until I was old enough to drink legally. On my 21st birthday, Dad took me to the bar he frequented, introducing me as his “Demon-crat” daughter, but I proudly hopped up onto the bar stool and ordered a beer. I felt comfortable enough that outside of the church, during a break in the rehearsal for my sister’s wedding, I was able to stomp down the steps of the church and ask him for a light. His only reaction was to make sure my paternal grandmother didn’t see me smoking, despite the fact that this was the first time he ever saw me smoke.
He isn’t all that great words at times, kind of like me, unknowingly and unintentionally putting his foot in his mouth, much like I do from time to time. He once jokingly called me “piggy”, not realizing that for a woman that was a sensitive spot. He’s said things in jest that have upset my mother, and when the tears have appeared in her eyes and she’s left the room, he’s looked at me and said “What did I do?” Yeah, I know where I get that from. But he’s a good man. He joined the Marine Corps at the height of the Vietnam War and to this day does not like to talk about the fact that he was not shipped off to the battlefront. He will always contribute to a cause, giving of his time and resources quietly to help a friend or co-worker in need. He only visited my niece when she was in the NICU one or two times. We found out later that he would break down in tears at the office when asked how she was. It was too hard for him to be there at the hospital, knowing that he couldn’t fix her or make her strong. I admire that more than he will ever know.
Tonight was the 7th year in a row that I’ve helped dad set up the barricades outside of WalMart, making sure that the crowds that will appear before the store opens are orderly. He could delegate the task, but he wants to make sure the job is done right – that the lines are set up so nobody gets hurt in a push to the door. I don’t even recall why I volunteered to help that first year, but every year, rain or shine, with help or none, we go out to set up the barricades. No deep talks, barely any conversation. Just the two of us, walking from point A to point B setting up the wooden “horsies” (as I used to call them) in straight lines.
This year the store was open, so we had to wait until after dinner to go out. We had our usual “make fun of the idiots” barbs, watching the people who pull up and park their cars despite the unnaturally empty parking log, surprised that the store isn’t open on Thanksgiving night. We drove back, in silence, comfortable in knowing that some things don’t need to be said.
I am thankful this Thanksgiving night. I am thankful that I have a full (if large) belly, a roof over my head, and two rambunctious pups. I am thankful that I have a great family – mom who I can share just about anything with, dad who will always be there for me even if he doesn’t say it, my sister who will support me without fail, my brother-in-law who is the protective older brother I never had but always wished for, my niece Tara who just may be the love of my life, my grandparents who attended every event that they could. I’m thankful I reconnected with so many old friends, Jenn, Sherri, Heather, Renee, Jeff, Suzanne – the list goes on. I’m thankful for the new friends I’ve made this year and I’m thankful for the friends who have remained in my life. This list could go on with friends and family who are too innumerable to name. To all of you, friends and family, thank you for loving me, for being in my life, and for accepting me without fail. I am thankful for all of you.
P.S. I’m joining my friend and fellow blogger Heather sending my prayers and thoughts to the people of Mumbai. She puts it much better than I here in her blog.
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