My father. The first man in my life…

The tall, rugged looking man with legs that went on forever, dark eyes, hair and skin. He was the one that protected me from the beginning. I would spend every Friday to Sunday with my dad at my grandmother’s house. Built in 1901, the house was a formidable presence taking up an entire corner. It had white clapboard siding and a covered porch that extended the entire front of the house where my dad and gram would visit with her extended family of 14 siblings. There was a lilac tree that was shaped like an umbrella that I would sit under and make believe I was a mommy to my Baby Alive doll.

My father. He was my giver of treats…jawbreakers so large my little cheek protruded like I had a softball in there…sour cream and onion chips that my sister and I weaseled out of my dad by crawling on him, all the way up to his ears and chirping, “tweets, tweets daddy!” and the soda…ah the soda. Bubbly, crisp and cold, I couldn’t get enough. Just one more glass please daddy.

My father. The man who would sit in his tan, worn leather chair listening intently as an older me chattered on about any subject from dealing with over demanding clients to my son’s latest victory in golf or his latest defeat in journal writing.

The man that gave wet kisses on my chubby little cheek and never ended a conversation without saying “I Love you Kel”.

This is my first love…

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