I am biased, as most daughters should be, that my dad is the best in all the land. In all honestly though he ranks at the very top of them all. He is the most giving and caring man ever. And let's face it, having to put up with me, he has to be one of the most patient men on the planet.
My dad has always been my best friend. That isn't to say we have never had arguments, all best friends have arguments. The very best ones figure a way to settle them and move on. My dad and I are no different. I always felt bad for him that he never had a little boy to go and play catch with and with which to talk the "boy talk". So I decided that I would be his little buddy. He was a football coach and athletic director and I was his sidekick. I loved to go and golf with him, mostly because I liked to be able to drive the golf cart. He even got me my own set of clubs so we could play. He would get on the men's tee and drive the hell out of the ball and I would get on the Misty tee (about 20 yards in front of the shortest one) and I would play whack a mole. 20 shots later my ball would make it to the green (I told you he was patient).
My dad loved to hunt and fish. On one sad occasion he took my sister and me with him to go deer hunting. I had no idea he was actually trying to kill the animals until I got there. I mean, I thought I knew what deer hunting was, but seeing it firsthand really made me realize the little guys might get injured. It was cold, we were in the woods, a deer appeared on the horizon and there was blood about to be spilled. I had to hatch a plan and hatch it quickly. Luckily we had healthy southern snacks in the form of Snickers Bars and Coca-Colas with us. I grabbed the candy bar and made as much noise as possible with the wrapper and thus saved the deer's life. After that day, my sister and I never darkened another deer stand with my dad.
I hung out with my dad so much I guess I thought he and I had the same authority. I was "helping" him at a track meet when I was about 9 where the realization of my actual status of "kid" came to me. There I was in my trusty Puma cleats, wearing my whistle with my mouthful of sunflower seeds. I sidled up to a senior boy on the track team and plainly told him I wanted to sit in the seat he was occupying. He looked at me, gave me a sideways look and said, "I'm not sure you realize it but you aren't the coach... your dad is." For me, it was like a scene out of a movie where the person's face is really clear but seems to be moving to the far end of a tunnel. It was a good lesson, and one I am happy I figured out at the tender age of 9 as opposed to possibly being in high school and having the same scene repeated.
My dad taught me how to drive and again, had the patience of Job. I was so afraid of driving my standard rule was drive at least 5 miles UNDER the speed limit. Holy hell. Thankfully, we lived in a pretty rural area and had a lot of back roads. I was terrible at driving at night and even worse at parking. My favorite times were when we would have to go to a game to scout or for my dad to be the administrator and we would get to take the magical Driver's Ed car, the one with an extra brake on the passenger's side. I LOVED riding on that side when my dad was driving. That little pedal called my name and I would choose the most inopportune times to mash it down. I got to learn lots of new curse words and had a giggle all at the same time.
When I finally was able to drive on my own, I struggled with the concept of needing gas. Actually, I struggled with time management. I would never leave our house until the absolute last minute to get anywhere. It drove my dad nuts. Poor guy was my principal in high school and my time management skills meant I had a few extra tardies first hour. That is until I figured out if I came in just late enough I could pull the tardy slip off the door before it got to the office. I was just doing crisis management for him. The gas crisis was actually a bigger issue. Somehow it always seemed that I would run out of gas with less than a mile to go to the school. On about the 7th time I had to traipse to a nearby place to call him (this was a bit before cell phones), things got testy. My dad finally sat me down and said, "Misty, there is no easy way to tell you this, but it is not possible to wean a car." Hmm. I listened and nodded as if I heard him. And then promptly ran out of gas again the next week.
Poppa Ron. Giver of givers. He would give you the shirt off his back and then some. I remember in college when I would be running low on funds, I would drive down to his office and wait patiently in the outer room as he was scolding one kid or another and then go in to ask for extra funds. My dad was born and raised in Arkansas and as such has a slower cadence to his speech than say someone from almost any other state. I would tell him the plight of my sad bank account and he would look at me, lean back in his big office chair and put his hands behind his head, and slowly, ever so slowly, give me his decision on fund distribution. At some point he decided he would use the inquiries for money as a way to gauge the college education I was receiving. He would ask me things like, who was Harriet Tubman? How did Western Civilization form? Recite the Kreb's Cycle.
He got so tired of giving me gas money he gave me his gas card. Silly, silly man. I know his thinking was that the card would only be used for gas, and honestly, how much gas could a person use just driving to and from class? Well...... gas stations in Arkansas, although only recently carrying alcohol, had plenty of other stuff to purchase. My college roommate and I would regularly go grocery shopping in the local Shell Station. Such good prices! My dad finally, after many, many expensive charges, called me to ask if I had started my own trucking company or possibly a taxi service for the homeless. I had those gas cards for years. They even came with me on my trips to Maine. We came up with a mnemonic for remembering which stations we could use Poppa Ron/Momma Linda Bucks.. STEM.. Shell, Texaco, Exxon, Mobil. So many gallons of gas, so many bottles of beer. When I was about to turn 30 I said to my dad that I would hand the gas cards over to him as a sign of age and independence. We were having my 30th birthday lunch with many friends and my parents and I waved in a grand gesture and said, father, here are your gas cards back, my independence is upon me. About 5 minutes later my mom turned to me and slid them back to me under the table and instructed me that my delivery was good but my content needed work. I still have one gas card to this day. Damn you dependence on oil!!
My dad is my hero to this day. I still call him to ask the silliest questions. He always has just the right answer and always makes me feel better. He has recently learned the art of texting and will send me the sweetest little nuggets and usually signs off with his name.. Poppa.
I am so thankful for Poppa Ron. He is the best. And I am lucky to call him Dad. :):):)
