Dear Dad:
Don't know how I got so lucky to have been blessed with someone like you for a father. There are so many things you've done for me, I hardly know where to begin. Thank you for:
- never doubting me for a minute
- teaching me to be honest, even when no one is looking
- making me a Bears fan
- not making me a Cardinal fan
- encouraging every creative impulse I've ever had
- making me feel like the best cook in the world
- telling me I'm your favorite golfing partner
- sharing your knowledge of all things financial
- the sound of your laughter
- never being too busy to help me tackle a problem
- not being disappointed I wasn't a boy
- teaching me to stand up for myself
- being my ever fearless, ever ready mouse hunter
There's so much more but it's almost midnight and your middle-aged little girl is falling asleep. I can only promise you that I won't wait till next June to let you in on how grateful I am God sent me to live at your house.
When a girl is lucky enough to have the best father on earth, every day should be Father's Day.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Follow That Truck?
The experts say that our sense of smell is our greatest trigger of memories. While I can't disagree that the aroma of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies does ship me back in time to my Nana's kitchen or that cutting a fresh lemon does transport me back to the Amalfi Coast, I still think the ring of an old familiar song is the closest thing to a Time Machine voyage we human beings are ever going to experience. The song definitely remembers when - especially when the chimes of Turkey in the Straw (or as I know it, Do Your Ears Hang Low?) pierce the humid, summer air.
The ice cream man wasn't always a rip-off. When I was a kid (okay, be ready to be very jealous), The Good Humor Truck was the only game in town. The drivers in the crisp, white shirts delivered yummy, chemical-free treats to you and two of your best friends for less than a dollar. He didn't have a song then, just a bell; a bell that had every kid in the neighborhood salivating every bit as much as Pavlov's dog. The instant gratification of running to that truck with a pocketful of quarters and coming away with a frosty treat was the best. I tried my best to recreate the memory for my own kids but by that time, Good Humor ice cream was found in every grocery store and never tasted as good as it did when it was dripping down your arm while you were standing on the curb - not that I ever heard them complain.
Now that the independently owned ice cream trucks employ a song you can't get out of your head and serve $2.50 vanilla flavored, imitation chocolate-covered ice cream bars, I can't help feeling sorry for today's kids. It must be a tough sell trying to convince their moms to pony up the cost of a steak dinner for a handful of Popsicles.
But, there's no denying, there's something powerful about that damn song. Like a cobra popping out of that basket when his turbaned master picks up his flute, I've been close to jumping out of my car and tracking down that pied piper more than a few times and I haven't had a child looking up at me for more than fifteen years.
So maybe it doesn't matter that it's expensive. Maybe it doesn't matter if the quality isn't as good. Maybe all that matters is that it's part of your childhood - a part I know I'll want to share someday with my grandchildren.
I just hope I can afford those $10 Fudgesicles.
The ice cream man wasn't always a rip-off. When I was a kid (okay, be ready to be very jealous), The Good Humor Truck was the only game in town. The drivers in the crisp, white shirts delivered yummy, chemical-free treats to you and two of your best friends for less than a dollar. He didn't have a song then, just a bell; a bell that had every kid in the neighborhood salivating every bit as much as Pavlov's dog. The instant gratification of running to that truck with a pocketful of quarters and coming away with a frosty treat was the best. I tried my best to recreate the memory for my own kids but by that time, Good Humor ice cream was found in every grocery store and never tasted as good as it did when it was dripping down your arm while you were standing on the curb - not that I ever heard them complain.
Now that the independently owned ice cream trucks employ a song you can't get out of your head and serve $2.50 vanilla flavored, imitation chocolate-covered ice cream bars, I can't help feeling sorry for today's kids. It must be a tough sell trying to convince their moms to pony up the cost of a steak dinner for a handful of Popsicles.
But, there's no denying, there's something powerful about that damn song. Like a cobra popping out of that basket when his turbaned master picks up his flute, I've been close to jumping out of my car and tracking down that pied piper more than a few times and I haven't had a child looking up at me for more than fifteen years.
So maybe it doesn't matter that it's expensive. Maybe it doesn't matter if the quality isn't as good. Maybe all that matters is that it's part of your childhood - a part I know I'll want to share someday with my grandchildren.
I just hope I can afford those $10 Fudgesicles.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Wedding Bell Blues
It's finally here - the onslaught of weddings that will occupy considerable space on my calendar for the foreseeable future officially started this past weekend. First up was the wedding of a young man I've known since birth. His parents are part of a circle of friends that have graced our lives for the last thirty years. We all got married together, we had children together and now we are moving into the inevitable role of father/mother of the bride/groom.
It was a beautiful, sunny day, the kind of day that cements June's reputation as the perfect wedding month. The bride and groom were right off the top of that cake, the venue was charming; heck, even the food was good. So where was my previously incurable romantic self hiding during all the festivities? And who was that cynical, considerably older persona that had taken her place?
It might have had something to do with being married for almost three decades. As much as I want to believe that two young people can find their soul mates and live happily ever after, I'm realistic enough to know how tough that happily ever after thing is; how challenging it can be to share your life with another human being, even if, against all odds, you end up picking the right one.
So, tonight I'll be saying a prayer for all the couples committing themselves to each other in front of God and family. I'll pray they won't give up when the you-know-what hits the fan. I'll pray they weather adversity with humor and kindness.
And I'll pray that thirty years from now, they'll still look at each other the way they did on a warm, sunny day in June.
It was a beautiful, sunny day, the kind of day that cements June's reputation as the perfect wedding month. The bride and groom were right off the top of that cake, the venue was charming; heck, even the food was good. So where was my previously incurable romantic self hiding during all the festivities? And who was that cynical, considerably older persona that had taken her place?
It might have had something to do with being married for almost three decades. As much as I want to believe that two young people can find their soul mates and live happily ever after, I'm realistic enough to know how tough that happily ever after thing is; how challenging it can be to share your life with another human being, even if, against all odds, you end up picking the right one.
So, tonight I'll be saying a prayer for all the couples committing themselves to each other in front of God and family. I'll pray they won't give up when the you-know-what hits the fan. I'll pray they weather adversity with humor and kindness.
And I'll pray that thirty years from now, they'll still look at each other the way they did on a warm, sunny day in June.
Friday, June 1, 2012
The New Normal
Another Friday night. This used to be my favorite time of the week. School and/or work was over and I could look forward to sharing a pizza as well as a weekend with my family. Now that the kids are moving on, Fridays are still great but they're not quite living up to their former glory.
Take tonight. I'm sitting here in my family room, completely alone, trying to run through a couple of online Italian lessons (Vorrei avere la zuppa del giorno - I'd like the soup of the day to you non-Italians) before coming up with a topic for this blog. The house is dark; my husband is watching some nature or history channel on the non-HD TV in the basement and my daughter is up in her room getting cozy with her computer. I know I must be getting old because all I want to do is turn off all the gadgets and blow the dust off the old Scrabble board. There are just some nights when 'Words With Friends' won't cut it.
I guess I shouldn't complain. The son we rarely see did manage to squeeze us into his busy schedule tonight. Never mind that he stayed just long enough to consume a quarter of the extra large pizza we ordered before hustling off to see a movie with his honey. Good thing I'm not proud; I'll dangle free food or just about anything else to entice my kid to pop his old address into his GPS and find his way back over here. For a few minutes we were all together. For a few minutes it felt like old times, hanging around the kitchen on a Friday night with a pizza. For a few minutes I forgot that we're all going in separate directions.
But now that I'm sitting here in a dimly lit, painfully quiet room; with nothing to keep me company but the words pouring on to my computer screen, I remember.
Take tonight. I'm sitting here in my family room, completely alone, trying to run through a couple of online Italian lessons (Vorrei avere la zuppa del giorno - I'd like the soup of the day to you non-Italians) before coming up with a topic for this blog. The house is dark; my husband is watching some nature or history channel on the non-HD TV in the basement and my daughter is up in her room getting cozy with her computer. I know I must be getting old because all I want to do is turn off all the gadgets and blow the dust off the old Scrabble board. There are just some nights when 'Words With Friends' won't cut it.
I guess I shouldn't complain. The son we rarely see did manage to squeeze us into his busy schedule tonight. Never mind that he stayed just long enough to consume a quarter of the extra large pizza we ordered before hustling off to see a movie with his honey. Good thing I'm not proud; I'll dangle free food or just about anything else to entice my kid to pop his old address into his GPS and find his way back over here. For a few minutes we were all together. For a few minutes it felt like old times, hanging around the kitchen on a Friday night with a pizza. For a few minutes I forgot that we're all going in separate directions.
But now that I'm sitting here in a dimly lit, painfully quiet room; with nothing to keep me company but the words pouring on to my computer screen, I remember.
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