Father's Day

Although my dad still has the uncanny ability to instantly make me feel poorly dressed, coifed and made-up (“you’re not going to wear that, are you?”) here are some of the reasons I forgive him.

When I was 10, motherless and having problems with my feet, he’d drive 60 miles to pick me up from school, another 60 back to the city for the appointment, drive me back to school, then return to work. We had a live-in housekeeper for such a purpose...but you don’t send your daughter to the doctor with anyone but yourself. Same with dentist appointments.

When I didn’t win the prize (a whole dollar!) for putting in the most practice hours on the piano, he paid me himself.

Every Christmas, he’d disappear right around the time Santa was scheduled to arrive. I’d follow him around (even to the bathroom) begging him to stay where I could see him so he wouldn’t miss Santa’s visit. Finally, one year, (right after Santa had dropped off my Betsy Wetsy and announced he was on his way to visit Lindsay Larson in North Dakota—that’s my cousin, I’d scream) I looked up from Betsy to see Santa tip-toeing across the backyard. I thought he was making sure I liked my presents, but the rest of the adults blew my dad’s cover.

He never once said I should or had to go into the family business. Instead, I messed around in Hollywood for five years, then chose to go into the family business of my own volition,

He never once asked when I was getting married.

He never once asked when I was going to provide grandchildren.

He never once said or implied I couldn’t do something because I was a woman.

He always made me feel special.

He always made me feel loved.


And that’s why he’s also my best friend.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you.