Before there was the painter’s daughter, there was the painter.
There are no words to describe this man. When I was little he convinced me he could touch the sky. I believed him for a very, very long time.
I have the best memories of him from when I was little. On our way to church, we would listen to Elvis, Dwight Yokum and Ronnie Milsap. He sang loudly and unapologetically — and I sang right along with him. I loved it. He used to balance me on his hand while I stood straight up. He used to throw me up in the air — I’m still convinced it was at LEAST 50 feet up in the air. He used to come home tired after hours of manual labor and I’d sit in his lap and take a deep breath of his smell. He smelled like sawdust and lacquer thinner — even walking through construction as an adult that smell takes me back. He’d look down at me and say, “Oh Shoogie, I was feeling so unnecessary…and now I’m home.” As a kid, you don’t really understand what that means — but now, I appreciate him even more. And yes, he called me Shoogie — and still does sometimes. When I think of him, he’s still only about 35 in my mind; which is a scary thought because I’m way closer to 35 than he is. I guess with little girls, their dads remain invincible to them.
Happy birthday to the first man I ever loved, and the first man to love me. I’ve always been proud to be The Painter’s Daughter.
*tear*
i love you.