Brown Thumb...

Current mood: thoughtful
Current music: "What A Diff'rence A Day Makes" - Diana Ross - From the album: Blue
Entry tags: dad, family, home life, typical linds

I don't know if I've ever said this before, but you guys should know, that I'm a total daddies girl.

Before my dad picked up Astronomy and photography (which he's totally crazy about now) as his big hobby, he used to garden.

When I was five, we moved from a crappy apartment, into the basement suite of my Mom's parent's house. The house had huge back and front yards, that my Dad promptly took over and dug half a dozen flower beds in, thusly ruining any chance of me playing soccer in the front yard without worrying about going ass over teakettle, and falling into a flower bed.

From as young as I can remember, I've never had to actually go out and buy a pumpkin for Hallowe'en, because my Father has attempted to grow bigger and better pumpkins each year.

And it's not just pumpkins, it's *huge* 11 foot tall sunflowers, half a dozen different varieties of roses, marigolds, snapdragons, lavender, bachelor's buttons, and every herb imaginable, including organic catnip for my parent's two cats. Chives, leeks, tomatoes, cherries, plums, potatoes, carrots, a palm tree, and even a few very small oranges, from what I can recall, though the tree didn't fare that well in the damp climate that is the lower mainland.

My dad used to record over my cartoons on VHS as a kid with gardening shows. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased with the results of my favourite cartoons.

My dad has the ultimate green thumb, So what the hell happened, and how come I can't even keep my virtual chia pet alive more than two days? How did I get stiffed on the genetics for gardening, when I picked up the genetics for handwriting?

Oh, don't get me wrong, I try. The last plant I managed to keep alive more than 2 months straight was the waxy succulent that my cousin gave me for Valentine's day. I used to murmur endearments to it while I was plucking the dried up flowers off of it.

Perhaps it's a patience issue. My dad is probably one of the most patient, calming people I've ever known in my life. Sure he used to yell at me when I was a kid, but what dad didn't? He can piss me off like *that*, and also console me when I'm inconsolable.

The thing I'm realizing, is that my Dad is almost 50. He'll be 50 in 2008.

In my mind, he's still the big strong man that used to carry me to bed when I had a nightmare and crawled into my parents bed at night when I was six. In reality, he still is. It's just a different type of nightmare, and he's not actually physically picking me up, anymore.

He's got a big full red and brown beard, and hair at least twice as long as mine. He's tall and husky and gives a fantastic hug, when he's in the mood to hug. He reminds me of a lion mixed with a teddy bear. He's got a wonderful, full, vibrant laugh.

He's had knee surgery to replace tendons, he has gout in his left foot, and has been doing a very successful job at lowering his cholesterol. He spends his 40 hours a week at work walking around, inspecting construction for the city he lives in, where he started from the ground up as a garbage man, and had his 25th anniversary with the city last year. He put himself through night school. I remember him doing "homework" when I was growing up, though it was a mess of blueprints for the city work he was doing. He skipped dinner with the mayor in order to attend my uncle's second wedding.

He's loyal, caring, capable, brilliant, thoughtful, loving and generous, and I don't think I tell him how much I love him and appreciate him enough.

When they say that every girl want's to marry a man like her father, give or take a few things, that's pretty much bang on the money. I'd be a lucky woman if I could marry someone as amazing as my dad has been over the past 26 years of my existence.

Thanks, Dad.