Sacrificed unselfishly, just to keep us all fed.
Wow! My dad asked me to be his friend on Facebook. Who would have ever thought? Being the good daughter I am, I accepted. Facebook asked if I wanted to write on his wall and/or look at his profile. I click so I can write him a note to say hello. While I’m there I look around and see who his friends are and what he’s filled out on his profile. He’s added the usual information, his email, where he lives, his home town and his birthday. Wait! His birthday? There has to be a typo! According to what he’s filled out he will be 73 years old on November 15. How did he get to be so old? How did I?
My mom and dad just celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary at the end of October. That’s a long time. I remember my dad as a young mechanic, working at a car dealership. She stayed home with us. Mom would make his supper and we’d take it to him because he was working late, either on something of his or someone else’s.
My dad has loved cars for as long as I’ve known him. His interest began in high school if not earlier. He was fortunate enough to have a car to drive. He’d tinker with it and get it running just how he wanted. My mom said about that time my granddaddy would decide it was time for a new one. Granddad had this thing about getting new cars on a regular basis. Anyway, the new car would get there and dad would start again.
Ford is the only make of car there is as far as my dad is concerned. He worked at Ford dealerships almost exclusively. He won Ford mechanic of the year in 1970. He was one of the top 20 Ford mechanics in the country. He got a huge trophy and he and mom got to go on a cruise to Jamaica. It was a real honor.
Dad raced cars too. Of course they were always Fords. His racecars were always painted red and yellow. His number was 33. I don’t know how many he had through the years. We would go, every Saturday night, sometimes Friday too, and watch him race. He usually did pretty well.
There was a man named James.
Hot-rodding was his game.
He raced round and round that track,
Til he rolled and hurt his back.
He had to stay in bed.
His face turned mighty red.
He had to wear an icepack,
Right upon his head.
Said James, “Hot-rodding is my game.”
My dad also competed in a couple of demolition derbies. The object is to have the last car running. Everyone in the event rams their cars into each other trying to knock them out of the competition. Dad knew all kinds of tricks. He was in one derby in Gallup, NM, somehow connected with the Navajo Indian Reservation. He won. All the little Navajo children were running around trying to get a piece of something off his car. They called him the “Demolition Derby Champion of the Navajo Nation”! He won a trophy and some kind of prize money.
And never take for granted the love in Daddy´s hands.
So what is knitayear? It’s a project I read about in a tweet. The recipe is basic; cast on some stitches, knit at least two rows every day using a color that fits your mood or feelings that day. If you want, you can journal or blog as a kind of documentation of your feelings, ultimately creating a personal record of the year. I thought it sounded interesting, so I decided I was going to do it. I thought about it. This idea could apply to anything that was of interest. If you read, choose a book and reflect after the amount you’ve chosen to read each day. Explore poetry and document your interpretation. If you like music listen to a new artist each day or a favorite song or a theme, like a song with Monday in the lyrics. Then reflect if you want. You could choose to try something new every day, a food, a project, an idea. You could take this idea wherever you wanted.
My daughter decorates cookies. Amazing cookies! When I first told her about my project I told her she could do it with cookies too. She started, but life, as it often does, got in the way. Now she’s started it again. If you want to keep up with her 365 days of cookies go to her blog, http://sweetsugarbelle.blogspot.com.
But I´ve come to understand.
There was always love in Daddy´s hands.