Props to Reba (and Kelly) for my blog title tonight. I feel entitled to use it because on October 7, 1998, I was minding my own business driving home down Highway 63 and she literally whopped me up the side of the head with a two by four when I heard this song for the first time. My dad Chuckie died on October 11, 1997, so if you listen to the words to this, you’ll know why it was a major Godwink for me…it “had been almost a year…”
There are three times a year when I get that dis-ease inside that feels like I put sadness, joy, peace, fear, regret, and gratitude in my blender of a belly, push the “ON” button, and leave it running until the motor dies. Spent. Exhausted. BURNT. OUT. Those three times are Memorial Day,Father’s Day, and October 11.
So here on the eve of Father’s Day, the “pulse” button is starting and I’m really missing him a bunch. Even after all of these years, there are things I find myself wanting to ask him, pick his ordered, logical, accountant brain (ok, “anal” would describe it better), and hear more stories about what his world was like. I want to surprise him again with a visit up at the river and take that spontaneous boat ride (sans wing dam surprise). After reconnecting with my Father listening to Quiet Night (again!), I will listen to this song over and over on my iPod tonight as I beg for some REM sleep, and know that when I wake up, my eyes will be puffy and crusty with dried tears and it will be yet another Father’s Day he’s been gone. But I’m one Father’s Day closer to being with him again.
I hope he’s ready – I have a list of questions for him. And I’m sure he’ll point out the moon he mistakenly thought I hung. He knows now it wasn’t me, doggone it. I love and miss you, Dad. I’m pretty sure there is no sand in the boats in heaven. And if there is, it doesn’t bother you any more, does it?
Dad, were you rolling in that grave tonight after we sang those Baptist hymns jazzed up with a band and drums in church tonight? Nah, you loved it. It was just another tribute to you and your Baptist upbringing. PTL.