Letter to Dad

Dear Dad,

First, I want to say I love you.  Dad, you loved me through the thick and thin. Through my mistakes and my triumphs. You are and will always be my hero – a perfect example of how a father should be.  I know I made many wrong choices in life, but you never judged me. When I succeeded, you celebrated with me. 

You were an amazing father and an amazing man. I have so many wonderful memories.  If I were to mention them all in this letter, I would run out of paper.

We went to the dump together so many times. That may not sound very exciting to most, but it was my favorite childhood adventure.  I would get to hang out with the coolest guy in the world, my Daddy.  We would load up the trash and then head to the dump. I wasn’t much help, but you would always say I was. When we got to the landfill, you’d holler at me to stay in the truck.   I usually got out and ran around anyway. It was after the dump that was the most fun. We would go to Uncle Pete’s store and I would get my pick of candy (or candies).  I usually chose a Marathon bar which I would grasp in my hand and proceed to smear on my face and get in my hair. You tried your best to clean me up, but the usual resolve was to say “We will get hell when we get home anyway.”  We would our end dump day adventure by heading back home, usually picking up a few aluminum cans along the side of the road and tossing them into the back of the pickup.

You called our candy outings “glue-potting” although I never knew where that term came from. I just loved spending time with you.  I was your Tomato Plant, and you were my Daddy.  I think you called me that because I had red cheeks all the time, but I am not sure.  You called Debbie Dog Bite.  Those were the best nicknames kids could ever ask for.

Being the youngest, I often felt left out when my older sister Debbie got to attend big girl events like dances and slumber parties.  We had a camper on the truck and you would take me down the street to the park and pretend to camp out.  We would split hotdogs in half and fry them in butter.  After eating, we would head home to Mom, who probably enjoyed the break!  Now the truth can be told – my outings with you were far better than any silly school dance or slumber party. 

When I got my driver’s license and Grandpa Turner sold me that big old blue Pontiac, you showed me how to change oil and tires.  You didn’t let me take the car out until you knew I could do these things. You sat in a lawn chair drinking a Diet Pepsi while I changed the oil and rotated the tires.  At the time it seemed like cruel punishment, but now, many years later, I appreciate the lessons I learned that afternoon.  You didn’t want me to have to rely on anyone.

When I wrecked the fender on that Pontiac, I called, you and Mom came right away.  I knew you were upset with me, but after checking to make sure the car would run and make it home, you made me drive it.  I didn’t want to get behind the wheel, but you made me do it. Even though you did not yell at me, I knew I upset you with my carelessness.  When I had the car repaired, you would not let me paint the fender.  I learned so many lessons that way - without a harsh word from you. 

I remember the day I announced I was joining the Marine Corps.  Even stronger is the memory of the day I left for basic training.  I know you were afraid for me, yet your pride kept me strong for those 13 long weeks.  Your pride kept me strong as I served our great country just like my Dad did so many years before me. 

My memories of our good times are strong, even after that awful disease took your memories away. I will always remember.  I held your hand that last day, and in my heart I knew you would remember it all again soon.

Rest in peace, I love and miss you!

Tammy