Dear Dad,
On your birthday…
You would be whistling through your teeth, like you always
did. The same way I do now, and it makes mom smile I think, because she
remembers you full of music. She used to say that she when the two of you sang
together, she remembered all the words, and you carried the tune, but forgot
the words. You taught me to sing my way through life.
I would make you a card, and color it orange and green, because everything I
made for you was orange and green. Why were those your favorites? When I was
little, I didn't even question.
We would surely have a carrot cake, because that was your preferred flavor. Or
maybe a pineapple upside-down, because you really liked any cake mom would make
you. Who wouldn't? Her cakes are heavenly. I remember when we went on our road trip
across the country, and we ate carrot cake and had all your balloons in the car.
That was a great day on the road, and you were selfless to give up a more relaxing
birthday you could have had for the sake of our road trip.
Mom says that once, in her eagerness to be a good wife for you, she asked you
what foods you didn't like to eat. And you said, Well, nothing, really. Except
shredded wheat. And those were the days when shredded wheat usually came in
large chunks you shredded into your own bowl. Then, when mom brought home some
sugared shredded wheat breakfast cereal, you said, Hey--this isn't so bad after
all. You taught me to be grateful for everything in life.
I learned a great life secret when we went to the store together.
There were some items, treat-type items, that both of us really liked.
I would say, Oh, we just better get some _____ (pistachios, avocados,
Popsicles, cookies, malted milk balls...)
And you would say, with a grin: Well, yes, I suppose we better.
From then on, you were my Shopping Buddy.
We didn't always tell mom, but she always found out when we got home, anyway.
I chased you barefoot all over the garden when we grew vegetables each summer
as a family. When you weren't looking, I picked a lot of the pea pods and ate
them raw. You were probably checking your "glory holes" full of
squash plants, and didn't always notice. And afterward we would do a whooole
lot of digging dandelions. You taught me to work hard, to be independent, and
to weed things out of my life that didn’t need to be there.
And that straw hat you wore on every vacation. We never lost you in the crowd
because of that hat. But then once we rode a rapids water ride at a park and
went under a waterfall, and it was Auf Wiedersehen to that hat. Did you still
wear it ripped up? I think you did.
You were the most enjoyable best friend a little girl could have. I have this
vivid memory of you running with me all over the place, piggy-back style, and
jumping extra high up and down the stairs so I would bounce on your back, and I
would laugh and laugh. We would sit on your legs on the living room floor and
have "elevator" and "motorcycle" rides. Daddy-daughter
dates with you made me feel like the luckiest little girl in the world.
I wish you were here so I could finally understand all of
the Old Testament lessons you taught us for family home evening, with the
slides from your beloved projector flickering across the walls of the dining
room as you spoke about ancient lands and people. You were so animated, and I
was transfixed by your knowledge half the time and dozing off the other. If you
were here now, though, I wouldn't fall asleep. Truly, I wouldn't.
You are brilliant. A quote that you liked sort of became our family motto.
"If I have any money, I buy books. If there is any left, I buy food and
clothes."
Your office at the Institute building was lined with floor-to-ceiling
double-width bookshelves, with books stacked two-deep. Until your space was
evaluated for earthquake safety and you had to bring them all home. But you
wouldn't have minded being buried in your books in an earthquake anyway. It was
a way you'd have liked to go.
You absolutely loved taking pictures.
Half the time you were lying on your back to get the perfect camera angle. Mom
told Bryan that I'm not nearly so concerned with my snapshots as you were, as
once you waited over an hour to have the lighting be perfect on the door of a
building you were shooting. When we took family pictures with your tripod, you
would always set the timer, then flail your arms, get a crazy look on your
face, and run like the Dickens to take your spot with us.
I have this picture of it in my mind that I never, ever want to forget.
It's still tradition that the button-pusher must flail his or her arms and run
to join the picture when we use self-timers.
A few months ago, I was looking through my old elementary
school portfolios and I found a Valentine Love Note you and mom wrote to me
when I was in second grade. You wrote to me how much happiness it brought you
and mom to have me when you didn’t think you could have any more children. I
never even imagined how much that note would mean to me, but I read it all the
time now.
I like to hope I'm a little bit of you left on this earth. The child you passed
your eyes along to, your goofy personality, your optimism, and (nearly) your
birthday. The balloons we blew up for my celebrations would always last until
yours. And they did this year once again.
Although this letter is a very humble attempt at honoring you for your
birthday, I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that I am a
woman of faith. I want you to know that I am doing all I can each day to make
you proud. And we are all taking care of each other, as you would do if you
were here.
Thank you for always being near, and for taking care of our children
up there, with you. You continue to have a great and meaningful influence on our
family.
When I was in Washington DC, I saw this picture in the
Pulitzer Prize gallery at the Newseum:
Burst of Joy by Salva Veder. I
immediately felt a connection with it. I could not stop staring at it.
The picture portrays a United States Air Force Lt Col. reunited
with his family after spending more than five years as a prisoner of war in
North Vietnam, and his fifteen-year-old daughter running to him with outstretched
arms.
As I stared at this picture, it sank into my soul that this
depicted exactly what it will feel like to see you again. So today, on your
birthday, this is the happiness I look forward to.
Happy birthday Dad!
With all the love in this world and the next,
Your daughter forever,
Rebecca
