Daddy was always right.

He was an about-to-be Marine– tall and handsome with hands as big as nighttime.  Not Daddy, the thug,  I mean.  His truck growled and groaned like a retired and dying hound dog and I sat right over next to him in it as we drove down my parents’ curvy, gravel drive.

He lit a Camel one handed and I simultaneously choked back a gag from the stench and the heart that was in my throat.

I saw Daddy in the rearview mirror of that loud, gray Chevrolet.  He was shaking his head just so and waving with one hand.   A hand that was strong and rough from bread trays and tractor wheels.

A hand bigger than nighttime.

At least I thought they were.

And if you’re interested there are some photos here.

]]> http://emilywithaheart.com/2009/08/19/a-new-adventure/feed/ 9 http://emilywithaheart.com/2009/05/08/parents-day/ http://emilywithaheart.com/2009/05/08/parents-day/#comments Fri, 08 May 2009 16:44:56 +0000 Emily http://emilywithaheart.com/?p=583 I’ve had lots of hard days in Colombia.  I’m woman enough to admit that.

There was the Virus o’ Death and the time I made a scene in an airport. There was the apartment flood and the day my computer crashed.  Oh, and that one particular ride home from the valley when I nearly tossed my cookies.  And then, there was today.

Parents’ Day in Colombia.

And well, the thing is, I miss my parents.  ‘Cause they’re pretty much rockstars.  Okay, that’s a stretch.  Daddy’s a redneck bread man and Momma’s a banker with the sweetest Southern drawl in three states, but they’re rockstars to me and I miss them.

My students were asked by the administration to make cards to give to their parents at a school wide assembly this morning.  I wanted the ones we did to be extra special and something that moms and dads would hold onto for a while.  I even promised blow pops to kids that made their parents cry with their words.  Trashy excuse for bribery, I know.

For good measure, I made one of my own to use as an example.  My parents haven’t seen it, so I guess they didn’t cry and I didn’t shed a tear making it.  Not even one.  Because why would I?  I mean, I’m an adult for cryin’ out loud.  And I’m not emotional at all.  Really.

MOM:  my friend.  biscuit cooker.  banker.  sneezer.  late night giggler.  house decorator.  bargain shopper.  hardest worker.  go out to eater.  my Momma.

DAD:  my hero.  strong.  brave.  loving.  kind.  worker.  dancer.  baseball thrower.  pool fixer.  hugger.  breakfast buyer.  laugher.  my Daddy.

She’s humming a song she’s made up as she folds and snips at an old piece of newspaper.  I wonder if it’s the obituaries page or the comics perhaps; she always reads them first.

My feet are hanging off the couch, miles from the floor and there are tiny specks of dust floating haphazardly in a beam of sunlight that’s cutting across the room.

A lazy Longview day with nothing to do but sweat.

The rocking stops and she smiles contentedly at the black and white scraps now piled high on the floor.

“Look,” she says and like the magic of a well rehearsed stage show, she unveils her work of art – a strand of paperdolls dancing to the cadence of a fan-made breeze and I have never loved her more.

He’s versatile like that.

Brother reads this here blog every once in a while.  When he’s got a layover or some free time (which is rare), he’ll sit down and catch up on posts.

He called me today and asked about Lauren’s “SO inappropriate!!” comment that was in reference to the he-thinks-he’s-subtle Casanova.  Let it be stated that the girls and I don’t doubt for a second who left that shadiness in the comments section.

Moving on.

He and I laughed for a bit about the humor of the not so mysterious Casanova and then he asked how I’d been.  “Tired,” I said, “really tired.”

“Really?  How can you be tired?  You’re a school teacher.”

Ahem.

Bet you his IRA that he’s never been in an elementary building on Halloween.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Most of the time a song we love is playing on the radio and he turns up the volume so we can both hear it.

And sometimes he’s thinking of a song we love and wants to ask, “Baby, who sings that song?”  And sometimes he says, “Baby, can you sing it like she does?” Or sometimes it’s “Oh, baby, she can do it, can’t she?”

These days Daddy’s fallen for Sugarland.

He figured out how to work the remote control so he could watch their music videos and he asked me to sing one of their songs at his New Year’s Eve party last year, but only if I could cry like she does.  Only if I could make it sound like it hurt me.

Talk about pressure, but I did it for my Daddy.

He pulled a chair up close while I sang and he watched and listened like he’s done one thousand times.  Except this time there was a crowd and a microphone instead of a hearth and a hairbrush.  And when the song was over, he hugged me tightly, grinned, and said, “Baby, you did pretty good.  Now, tell me, did I see a tear?”

Sugarland is coming to a town not far from ours and I asked Daddy if he’d like to go.  He put up a fight at first and said he was too old for all those sorts of things and he reminded me that the last concert he went to was The Carpenters, but I heard the faintest hint of excitement in his voice.

So, I worked it out (sort of) and two tickets are headed his way.

I’m to repay my friend in cash or kisses.  That’s the sort of part and y’all KNOW I’m not about to kiss a boy.  I mean, ew, but I’ll deal with that later.  For now, my Daddy’s going to see Sugarland.

And just maybe while he’s there he’ll dance with my Momma and miss his big girl a little.