A Wild Thing

Troy isn't home this Father's Day.  Boo!  We sure did miss him.  Maybe that's the best part about him being gone on Father's Day.  We really got a taste of life without him (sort of) and now we really know that life with him is way better.  But not to worry, we will still celebrate when he comes home!

So, instead of dwelling on the fact that my better half is missing, I'll tell you a little ditty about my own dad.

I have a lot of fond memories of my father.  My dear, kind, patient, generous father.  Let's see.  There's the time that he took me fishing and I refused to used the bathroom off the side of the boat.  He had to take me back to shore and I don't remember him once yelling at me or even rolling his eyes.  Another fond memory is riding bikes with him.  This was back in the day when safety concerns weren't as high as they are today.  No helmets.  No fancy schmancy padded bike seat with a reclining feature that's been crash tested.  It was a plastic seat attached to the back of the bike with a nylon strap across the lap.  But boy, did I sure love to get placed in there and go for a ride with the wind in my hair and my daddy's back in my face.  I also remember having "fight nights" with my dad.  He would get out a big blanket and roll us up like burritos and then, you guessed it, pull the blanket really fast thus sending us rolling across the carpet, laughing until it felt like our sides would burst.  Another favorite of "fight night" was when my dad would get on all fours and drape the blanket over his back.  He made one very ominous tunnel that he would then coax us to crawl through.  He would let us get through a couple of time, unscathed.  Then he would collapse on us and tickle us, again, until we laughed so hard we thought our sides would burst.

But my favorite memory has to be when he would read Where the Wild Things Are.  He was great at reading that book.  Maybe it was because he had it memorized for 4 years before I even came along.  I was watching and participating in a mastered work of art.  That book just lends itself to audience participation.  Oh, the terrible roars!  And I'm sure you would have thought us rabid if you were witness to the gnashing of terrible teeth.  With the rolling of terrible eyes and the showing of terrible claws, there would be no doubt in your mind where the wild things really were.  The most satisfying part of the book, in my opinion, is the last page.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the extreme surprise and pleasure of watching my father read Where the Wild Things Are to my children.  He pulled out a copy that was falling apart.  Its once crisp white pages were yellowed.  Needless to say, it had seen better days; the days of my youth.  He read them the story, of Max and his wolf suit, and their attention was rapt.  You should have heard the wild rumpus!  It sounded the same as when I was a wee one.  Much like a scene from a John Wayne movie with cowboys and Indians, I imagine.  The following morning Isaac came down the stairs wanting to hear the story again.  He was hooked.  So with a new copy in hand, my dad read to them, again, the story of the Wild Things.  Oh, joy of joys!

I'm so thankful, on this Father's Day, for my father.  Jeffery, king of all wild things.