Growing up, I was the absolute definition of a tomboy. While the other little girls in my ballet class French-braided each other's hair and chatted about Barbies, I sat petulantly in the corner, examining the scabs on my bruised knees and counting down the minutes until I could get away from Miss Ann, my dance instructor, and back into Black Oak Park on my pink Huffy ten-speed.
I caught and brought home schools of minnows from the creek, built forts with my younger brother in our backyard and wiped out villages of ants in the garden with a garden hose (the subsequent flood and uprooting of lily-of-the-valley bulbs from the latter brought about the wrath of my very unamused Mom).
I think it pleased my father that I loved to fish, and placed every year in his Optimist Club junior fishing competition. He laughed the year that I broke my fishing pole catching what turned out to be a rather large and disgruntled snapping turtle, and bought me a bamboo rod to replace it. He found it hilarious that I wanted to join the band in elementary school after finding his old trombone in the basement. I played that old trombone, albeit horribly, for two years.
Dad would set up the Slip N' Slide against the steep, grassy hill in the back yard, and my brother and I would play for hours. When we came inside, covered with grass and mud from the bottom of the hill, dad would usher us out before we destroyed the laundry room with muddy footprints.
Now that I am an adult, I realize how much patience my father must have had, and how much time he devoted to me and my brother. Had it not been for that dedication, I would not have the volume of memories that I reflect upon today. We were difficult children, and there are times, looking back, that I wonder if he is the reason we survived until adulthood.
No matter what your memories, remember to recognize Dad and his place in your life this Father's Day.
Originally published in The Statesboro Herald, Community Voice, June 13, 2008.