What's in a nickname?
I've been thinking about my dad a lot lately. I think about him almost every day; I would like to say confidently every day, but I'm not sure I can say that with my busy life and 12 years since he died. Naturally, I think of him more often during the holidays. His birthday is in October, the anniversary of his death in November, then Thanksgiving and Christmas, and on into New Year's and January which is the month of my parents' wedding anniversary.
I thought a lot about what my life would be like if he were still alive. I miss his food. He was a good cook and did all the cooking in our house. Even if I try to make something he made, it's just not the same. I want to make biscuits the way he made biscuits. I want to make pork roast and rice the way he made it. I can't even buy a pork roast. I can almost make a fried-bologna sandwich as good as him.
I wish David had met my dad. I wish he was here to play with my boys. He would have been a fabulous grandfather to them. He was a wonderful grandfather to my nieces. The perfect Papa - the kind that cooks for you, plays with you, takes you fun places, hugs and kisses you, teaches you all sorts of things, sneaks you a cookie or fudge, jokes with you, disciplines you, and makes you stand taller.
I think of him a lot when I'm running. I sometimes pretend he's running along side me, giving me encouragement and inspiration the way he would do if he were really here able to run with me or cheer for me. I hear him talk to me every now and then. Sometimes his words will filter through the noise of the world and give me wise instruction. I literally do hear him at times. His voice. His tone. The first time I heard it, there was no mistake. I couldn't pretend I had conjured it up. He told me to "get up and help your mother." Nothing profound. No secrets from the other side. Just what he'd say if he were here.
When I am short with someone, irritated and frustrated, I try to think of how quickly my father was taken from us. I immediately remember patience and love. My life is so crazy sometimes with so much that I must do and so much that I create for myself to do (why do I do that?). I try hard to enjoy my family and friends and try to tell them how much I care for them.
That is sometimes hard to do during the holidays when you've had too much family-time and nerves are frayed and tender, but I encourage everyone to know that you are not immune to bad things happening to you and yours. It's not always something that happens to other people. It really might be you or someone you love dealing with a traumatic event that swoops in unannounced, unwelcome, and unforgiving.
Btw, my dad called me Juice growing up. Just one of the reasons this blog is titled what it is!
I thought a lot about what my life would be like if he were still alive. I miss his food. He was a good cook and did all the cooking in our house. Even if I try to make something he made, it's just not the same. I want to make biscuits the way he made biscuits. I want to make pork roast and rice the way he made it. I can't even buy a pork roast. I can almost make a fried-bologna sandwich as good as him.
I wish David had met my dad. I wish he was here to play with my boys. He would have been a fabulous grandfather to them. He was a wonderful grandfather to my nieces. The perfect Papa - the kind that cooks for you, plays with you, takes you fun places, hugs and kisses you, teaches you all sorts of things, sneaks you a cookie or fudge, jokes with you, disciplines you, and makes you stand taller.
I think of him a lot when I'm running. I sometimes pretend he's running along side me, giving me encouragement and inspiration the way he would do if he were really here able to run with me or cheer for me. I hear him talk to me every now and then. Sometimes his words will filter through the noise of the world and give me wise instruction. I literally do hear him at times. His voice. His tone. The first time I heard it, there was no mistake. I couldn't pretend I had conjured it up. He told me to "get up and help your mother." Nothing profound. No secrets from the other side. Just what he'd say if he were here.
When I am short with someone, irritated and frustrated, I try to think of how quickly my father was taken from us. I immediately remember patience and love. My life is so crazy sometimes with so much that I must do and so much that I create for myself to do (why do I do that?). I try hard to enjoy my family and friends and try to tell them how much I care for them.
That is sometimes hard to do during the holidays when you've had too much family-time and nerves are frayed and tender, but I encourage everyone to know that you are not immune to bad things happening to you and yours. It's not always something that happens to other people. It really might be you or someone you love dealing with a traumatic event that swoops in unannounced, unwelcome, and unforgiving.
Btw, my dad called me Juice growing up. Just one of the reasons this blog is titled what it is!
Labels: family
posted by Jessica at
9:13 AM
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