Speaking of great days, tomorrow (or more likely today, by the time I finish writing this) is my Dad’s 75th birthday. And Phil was kind enough to kick off Dad’s birthday week with a win. My Dad is not typically an overtly emotional guy, but man does he love him some Phil Mickleson. Well, it’s a love hate relationship, really. He yells at the TV when Phil screws up, and cries when he is victorious. There are only a few times when I’ve seen my Dad weep, and the first time Lefty won the Masters was one of them. And don’t think that just because it’s now Phil’s 3rd time wearing the green jacket, my Dad did not shed tears of joy. Oh he did, according to reports from my Mom when I called to congratulate Daddy on “his” win.
My Dad has the BEST stories about being a police officer in a small town. I won’t do them justice here, but if you ever sit down and have a beer with my Dad, ask him about the following:
- The time he got shot at during a traffic stop and caught the guy on the same night.
- When he and his partner wrangled a raccoon from someone’s house, only for it to get loose in the back of the squad car. Everyone bailed out but the raccoon.
- The time he and his partner completely destroyed a lady’s house trying to capture a squirrel, and blamed it all on the furry rodent.
- “Where’s the Bathroom!!!” This one will have you snorting out loud.
In honor of my Dad, I would like to share a story of my own. I actually wrote this one down for Dad’s 70th birthday but it pretty much sums up how lucky I was to have such a great man as my Dad so I’ll share it here. When I was maybe 11 or 12, my best friend Jen and I somehow thought it would be a good idea to go to girl scout camp. We were not exactly outdoorswomen, and Jen was not known for her ability to stay away from home overnight for extended periods of time, so I don’t know what the hell we were thinking. But anyway, off we went to Camp Sacajawea. We arrived with excitement and settled into our platform tent. Um what? Tent? Not even a cabin. I have only vague memories of sweating to death, swatting bugs, and trudging through the woods and a dusty trail to get something to eat. What I distinctly remember is that Jen and I flippin’ hated that place after the first day, and we were supposed to stay for two weeks! We plotted our escape. I think Jen made the first move and went to the office to call her parents to come get her. Without her, there was no way I was sticking around, so I went to the nurse’s office to call my Daddy. Those Girl Scout Nazis were harsh – they said I needed to suck it up and my parents weren’t going to come all the way back here and they would be disappointed in me. Even then I knew they were full of crap. I remember them talking to my Dad, then handing the phone to me, and I think all I said was a pathetic “Daddy?” and poof, he was on his way to rescue me. I don’t think he used the police sirens but it is a possibility because before I knew it I was happily sitting in the passenger seat of his air conditioned car discussing how horrific conditions of girl scout prison camp. My knight in shining armor. My Dad.
Happy Birthday Daddy! I love you!
3 comments:
Happy birthday to your dad! (BTW, I cried when Phil won his first Masters...)
Jenny,
You're gonna make him cry again when he gets to read this. BTW when we dropped you off at that camp we both thought it was such a terrible place we would not have stayed there.
what a sweet story. are the interested in adopting a mildly adjusted 37 year old mother of one?
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