What do you say to the man who has never - not once - made you feel unloved?  Not even for a second…a nano-second…a half-a-blink of an eye.  Never.  I’ve been a bit headstrong at times (I’m being laughed at right now for severely downplaying this trait).  It’s possible my “terrible twos” were, well, terrible.  And my teenage years?  Try multiplying the difficulty of my terrible twos by a thousand.  Then multiply it again.  You’ve just reached the half-way point of what a pain-in-the-ass I was.  But through it all…through the tantrums and rolled eyes and missed “thank-yous”, my father’s unwavering support never faltered.  Even when I didn’t deserve his devotion…he was there.  And on the few occasions he did lose his cool (which was more than warranted, by the way), I truly believe the strong words were harder on him than me.

I don’t have a full library of vivid memories from childhood.  I certainly have plenty, but they’re not overflowing.  And I have a theory on this:  My childhood couldn’t have been better.  I couldn’t have been happier.  I couldn’t have been nurtured more, or taught more, or loved with more intensity.  Were I to remember every amazingly content day I experienced in those early years of life, my brain would have exploded or, at the very least, been unable to pack in the adult-sized memories to come. 

There are, however, a few gems that do stand out.  One of which is the time my Dad lost his cool with a neighbor.  The man - who was a bit odd, to say the least - was annoyed by the branches of a beautiful tree in our yard that hung over his side of the fence.  Before heading out to a swim team meet (go Memorial Northwest Marlins!), my Dad gave the strange bird permission to trim the limbs “invading his space”.  When we returned from the meet - sunburned, waterlogged and exhausted - we found that the tree had been cut down…completely.  The psycho had come into our yard and cut it down.  To say that my father was angry, would be the understatement to trump all understatements.  I’m not sure I’d ever seen that color of red on a human face, or heard the string of expletives that poured from his mouth.  My mother quickly shuffled my sister and I inside.  And even though I was surprised by my father’s uncharacteristic loss of temper, I knew in my gut, even as a young child, that this wasn’t about a tree.  This was about fairness.  And the difference between right and wrong.  And standing up for what you believe in.  This was the classic battle between good and evil.  I knew then, as I had every day before and have every day since, that my “Pops” is as good as it gets.

Through decades of a successful business career, when he could have sold out, fallen prey to greed, backstabbed or manipulated, he chose the high road.  To those in his industry, he was known as extremely intelligent, a gifted businessman, and most importantly, trustworthy.  He was on the fast track, and at a time when he could have taken the private jet to CEO glory, he chose a different, much less gilded path…he stepped down to allow my mother to blossom.  He built an office above the garage, became a private investor and a stay-at-home dad.  He gave my mother the opportunity to finish grad school and realize her dream of becoming a Psychotherapist. 

Through my junior high and high school years (not my glory days, to put it mildly) he carted me around, answered the call from the school nurse when I was knocked down by menstrual cramps, and signed (begrudgingly) my detention slips.

“How do you get ten tardies in two weeks?” he’d ask.  “What in the world is so important that it can’t wait until after school to be discussed?”

Look, I said he was committed and present, not that he developed breasts or a female mentality.

I’m not entirely sure why my father chose to take the detour he did.  I think he felt guilty that - in his mind at least - he hadn’t been around enough in our early years…that he’d spent too much time climbing the corporate ladder - working to ensure his children would never know the hardships of a poor, small-town Oklahoma farm boy.  I remember it differently, of course.  I don’t recall his absence.  I just remember his electric presence when he was there.  Testament, I believe, to the fact that quality is much more important than quantity.

As a father, my Dad is off the charts, but more importantly, he’s the best man I’ve ever met.  Probably the greatest man I will ever know.  His quick wit…his sharp, logical mind and passionate thirst for knowledge…his gut-level sense of right and wrong…his open and ever-expanding heart and his unwavering support and powerful devotion to our family…it’s all an amazing gift that, selfishly, I never want to lose.  And so I don’t even let my mind go there, because even the thought of it brings me to tears.  And I don’t feel like crying.  I prefer to believe that medical geniuses will soon find a way to extend the average human life to 120.  Because maybe when I’m 90, I can imagine a life without the daily phone calls, the smartass comments, and the invaluable advice.  Yeah…right.

So, Pops, on the eve of your birthday and Father’s Day, I say this to you (without concern that the rest of cyberspace is spying):  I love you.  I always have and I always will.  I humbly thank you for everything you have taught me, and everything you will teach me in the future.  There is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God that He chose you, Mom and Kim to guide me through this world.  And I am so proud to say I’m your daughter. 

If, at the end of my days, I’m half as loved and respected as you are, my life will have been a rousing success.  Yours?  Well, yours is a grand slam.  And as far as I’m concerned, you’re a good twelve outs from the 7th inning stretch.

One last promise:  I will have that damn book done by next week.  Or I will cause you immense bodily harm for sending another reminder smiley via IM.  One or the other.

P.S.  For those of you who have spent any time with my family, you know that I’m doubly blessed…that my wonderful mother deserves just as much praise…and she will get it.  I’m thinking a Mother’s Day tribute in July.  Keep on the lookout, Momma…I love you.

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