My father is dying. As in, he'll never read this post, won't be around for someone to read it to him. He's been sick for several years now and last week he was admitted to the hospital for the last time. The doctors think he won't make it through tonight. He outlived several prognoses, including the last (24-72 hours) one, but he said then that he's ready to go.
So this is my thank you to him. And to my mom, too, since the two of them together instilled in me a love of books that led me straight here. I swear I inherited my storytelling addiction to both of them. There is one big difference between them, though.
Mom (I really cringe to say this, by the way, since she just might read this post) informs me she really likes my books. Sex scenes (there are lots) included. Dad...well, let's just say that when I got my contract for Fortuneteller, I told him it was on "the risque side of bawdy" and that was all he wanted/needed to know. To the best of my knowledge, he never made it past the cover. It became sort of a standing joke between us. I'm not sure he understood--ever--why I wanted to write romance, but at least he didn't complain when I did.
According to my baby book, I was taking a book to bed at naptime instead of stuffed animals. I learned to read at the age of two or three. The two things you could count on seeing if you visited our house was a vast collection of music--I have Dad to thank for my eclectic music tastes, although I'm pretty sure he never listened to NIN or Modest Mouse--and walls of books. I inherited his appreciation for history, his talent for scrambling eggs, and his love of good beer. Fortunately, I did not inherit his ability to drink bad beer in the interest of trying something new.
He taught me how to play chess and chop wood. Passed on his love of folk music and a good story, the pleasure of an old movie. A curiosity that drives me to pick up the oddest books off the nonfiction shelves at the library. Never got me to like John Wayne or opera, though.
He probably taught me things I don't even recognize yet. I can only hope, of course, that he didn't teach me anything that I'll say and then think "oh, my god, I sound like my father."
So...thanks, Dad. Hope when you get where you're going that all the music is western swing, and all the books are biographies of your heroes. With some punk rock and romance novels thrown in just to shake things up a bit.
So this is my thank you to him. And to my mom, too, since the two of them together instilled in me a love of books that led me straight here. I swear I inherited my storytelling addiction to both of them. There is one big difference between them, though.
Mom (I really cringe to say this, by the way, since she just might read this post) informs me she really likes my books. Sex scenes (there are lots) included. Dad...well, let's just say that when I got my contract for Fortuneteller, I told him it was on "the risque side of bawdy" and that was all he wanted/needed to know. To the best of my knowledge, he never made it past the cover. It became sort of a standing joke between us. I'm not sure he understood--ever--why I wanted to write romance, but at least he didn't complain when I did.
According to my baby book, I was taking a book to bed at naptime instead of stuffed animals. I learned to read at the age of two or three. The two things you could count on seeing if you visited our house was a vast collection of music--I have Dad to thank for my eclectic music tastes, although I'm pretty sure he never listened to NIN or Modest Mouse--and walls of books. I inherited his appreciation for history, his talent for scrambling eggs, and his love of good beer. Fortunately, I did not inherit his ability to drink bad beer in the interest of trying something new.
He taught me how to play chess and chop wood. Passed on his love of folk music and a good story, the pleasure of an old movie. A curiosity that drives me to pick up the oddest books off the nonfiction shelves at the library. Never got me to like John Wayne or opera, though.
He probably taught me things I don't even recognize yet. I can only hope, of course, that he didn't teach me anything that I'll say and then think "oh, my god, I sound like my father."
So...thanks, Dad. Hope when you get where you're going that all the music is western swing, and all the books are biographies of your heroes. With some punk rock and romance novels thrown in just to shake things up a bit.
3 comments:
What a lovely remembrance of your dad. My heart goes out to you.
And yet, I think "I sound like my father" is just one more way to remember loved ones.
Thoughts are with you.
Wow sister-friend, you said that much gooder than I could have! I am proud to be his daughter and proud to be your sister! LYMI
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