Today is a day
Mar. 3rd, 2013 07:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
impy When Dad died, I figured the one good thing would be that I would get to hear all these stories about him throughout the years. That his funeral/wake/whatever would have people sharing Dad stories and I could stock up, especially with him not around to stop anyone from starting ones he didn't like.
Hollywood fucking lied to me, man. It lied! There were people but the stories were lacking. How could this be? Wasn't this what the day set aside for grieving was supposed to be about, remembering the deceased? Where were the stories of crazy stories from childhood, or some football story, or hell, anything from the last sixty years, people?
Where were the stories?
Sure, there were a few, but mostly it was a decided disappointment on that end. There I am, ditched after the first hour or so by the only friends of mine that showed (to be fair, when you don't have that many and half of them live out of state, your turnout is going to be minimal at best) floating around trying to find Dad stories and coming back with "football is dangerous, man."
Uh-huh.
So. Have some Dad stories.
When I was younger, I used to have a habit of skinning my knees. It happened at least once a year and is, when you think about it, a hazard of being vaguely tomboyish at times. I don't really remember all the times it happened, just that I tended to wear shorts until sixth grade because at some point I would've inevitably skinned both knees to hell and back.
The last time I remember doing it, the boy and I were chasing ducklings or something and my shoes had no traction, so when we crossed the road, I slipped and fell and killed both knees at once. Usually I only took out one knee at a time but this was a two-fer and it was gloriously painful. It was so bad that the boy turned an unearthly shade of pale and began to panic (which is normally my reaction to these things) and I had to tell him to go and get our parents. He comes back alone because it was afternoon siesta and he was afraid of waking them up, so I have to walk home (it wasn't exceptionally far mind you, but both knees busted) and I don't remember a thing about the walk other than probably crying. We get home and there were steps up to the house and I couldn't make it past the first one and that wasn't even really part of the stairs, let alone the stairs once you made it inside. I sorta flopped down and began to wail and shriek like a banshee and Mom appears.
And she quickly gets Dad. And he picks me up and carries me inside and that was probably the last time I got carted around by anyone, ever. Bonus points for being young enough to still be able to believe that my parents could fix anything.
Next up: Show of hands for people who get leg cramps. Anyone? Okay, good. I used to get them at random intervels and Mums would be the parent awake at 3am or whenever they'd strike, because she tended to still be awake or more easily woken. So, one night I get a really bad one that might've made me cry like a little girl. *cough* Dad was on his way to or from the bathroom and heard my possible tears and came to investigate. I remember asking him to get Mums and he told me he could handle it. He's the one who taught me the point your toe trick which is a pretty good way to get rid of most of them. Also, heating pad. It was one of those few times I remember Dad being the one to take care of something without Mums helping at all.
Dad's the one who indulged my comic book addiction when we were in DC for my grandfather's funeral. We got lost and ended up going in circles (and circles) and Dad, who never condoned swearing of any kind, dropped quite a few damns and hells. Later on in life he'd use the bigger words, but at the time it was a pretty big deal. Especially since this was BEFORE we made it to the comic book store. :P
Dad didn't really like lobster. (Found that out on the same trip.) He enjoyed his Pepsi in an ice cold can.
Occasionally Dad would go for walks around the neighborhood where I grew up. Somewhere around the fourth house down the street the neighborhood cats would start to follow him. This is how I tend to think of him now that he's gone.
Hollywood fucking lied to me, man. It lied! There were people but the stories were lacking. How could this be? Wasn't this what the day set aside for grieving was supposed to be about, remembering the deceased? Where were the stories of crazy stories from childhood, or some football story, or hell, anything from the last sixty years, people?
Where were the stories?
Sure, there were a few, but mostly it was a decided disappointment on that end. There I am, ditched after the first hour or so by the only friends of mine that showed (to be fair, when you don't have that many and half of them live out of state, your turnout is going to be minimal at best) floating around trying to find Dad stories and coming back with "football is dangerous, man."
Uh-huh.
So. Have some Dad stories.
When I was younger, I used to have a habit of skinning my knees. It happened at least once a year and is, when you think about it, a hazard of being vaguely tomboyish at times. I don't really remember all the times it happened, just that I tended to wear shorts until sixth grade because at some point I would've inevitably skinned both knees to hell and back.
The last time I remember doing it, the boy and I were chasing ducklings or something and my shoes had no traction, so when we crossed the road, I slipped and fell and killed both knees at once. Usually I only took out one knee at a time but this was a two-fer and it was gloriously painful. It was so bad that the boy turned an unearthly shade of pale and began to panic (which is normally my reaction to these things) and I had to tell him to go and get our parents. He comes back alone because it was afternoon siesta and he was afraid of waking them up, so I have to walk home (it wasn't exceptionally far mind you, but both knees busted) and I don't remember a thing about the walk other than probably crying. We get home and there were steps up to the house and I couldn't make it past the first one and that wasn't even really part of the stairs, let alone the stairs once you made it inside. I sorta flopped down and began to wail and shriek like a banshee and Mom appears.
And she quickly gets Dad. And he picks me up and carries me inside and that was probably the last time I got carted around by anyone, ever. Bonus points for being young enough to still be able to believe that my parents could fix anything.
Next up: Show of hands for people who get leg cramps. Anyone? Okay, good. I used to get them at random intervels and Mums would be the parent awake at 3am or whenever they'd strike, because she tended to still be awake or more easily woken. So, one night I get a really bad one that might've made me cry like a little girl. *cough* Dad was on his way to or from the bathroom and heard my possible tears and came to investigate. I remember asking him to get Mums and he told me he could handle it. He's the one who taught me the point your toe trick which is a pretty good way to get rid of most of them. Also, heating pad. It was one of those few times I remember Dad being the one to take care of something without Mums helping at all.
Dad's the one who indulged my comic book addiction when we were in DC for my grandfather's funeral. We got lost and ended up going in circles (and circles) and Dad, who never condoned swearing of any kind, dropped quite a few damns and hells. Later on in life he'd use the bigger words, but at the time it was a pretty big deal. Especially since this was BEFORE we made it to the comic book store. :P
Dad didn't really like lobster. (Found that out on the same trip.) He enjoyed his Pepsi in an ice cold can.
Occasionally Dad would go for walks around the neighborhood where I grew up. Somewhere around the fourth house down the street the neighborhood cats would start to follow him. This is how I tend to think of him now that he's gone.