Father’s Day

I went digging through old albums looking for my favorite photo of my daddy for father’s day.  It’s the one where you can’t tell I’m actively peeing on myself.


My daddy invented laughing until you can’t breathe.  Ignore the cigarette; I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.

My mom taught me how to use my words, but my daddy taught me which ones to use.  Then he pleaded for leniency on my behalf when they got me into trouble.

A few pages before I found that photo, I ran into another early childhood gem and it reminded me of one of the more important lessons I learned from my daddy.  Here it is:

There are bad days.  Acknowledge them, curse if it makes you feel better, then move on.


Here, I’ve got one of my earlier, self-inflicted bang trims, my mother has dressed me in what appears to be a quilt top she gave up on, and I am sitting, bare-assed, on hot, gritty concrete.  If you look closely, you’ll see I also have a bloody knuckle.  It was a Well, Damn kind of day.

But better ones followed.  My hair grew out, I got a job and stopped letting my mother dress me.  I learned how and where not to sit while going commando.  And I always knew I could count on my daddy for a good belly laugh.

I miss him.