Today is Father's Day. I miss my dad every single day, but it helps to remember all the good things. Today I thought about something I had not thought of in quite some time. When I was about four years old, we were getting ready to move from our apartment to the farm my parents had bought. The farm had a large barn with a tack room, which I thought was called a "tacker room" for some reason.
One evening I was with him when he painted the tack room doors. I really wanted to help so I went to find something I could use as a paint brush. There were a bunch of chicken feathers in the barn and I thought one would make a good brush. I grabbed the biggest one I could find and proceeded to dip it into the can of brown paint. Daddy was a bit worried about me helping because my mom might get upset if I came home covered in paint. I told him not to worry that if he held me up to the sink so I could wash my hands mom would never know! He let me help and we spent a pleasant evening with dad painting the doors while I "helped" by painting the bottom with my chicken feather. Of course I was not very careful and soon I was covered with splatters of brown paint.
When I was older we would laugh about this story. Mom said dad was worried about using turpentine to clean off my hands since I was so delicate. He did his best to clean me off with a rag and then we set off for home to face mom's wrath. Fortunately she found it more funny than foolish. She thought it was funny how I told daddy if he helped me wash up mom would never know. I will always remember that. We did not spend a lot of time together one on one like that, but when we did it was very special. Even if it was doing something as mundane as painting some doors, dad with a broad even stroke, and me dabbing paint on with my chicken feather. After he died, I went to the tack room and rubbed my hand over the flaking brown paint we had put on all those years ago and it made me smile.
Happy Father's Day, daddy. I love you.
One evening I was with him when he painted the tack room doors. I really wanted to help so I went to find something I could use as a paint brush. There were a bunch of chicken feathers in the barn and I thought one would make a good brush. I grabbed the biggest one I could find and proceeded to dip it into the can of brown paint. Daddy was a bit worried about me helping because my mom might get upset if I came home covered in paint. I told him not to worry that if he held me up to the sink so I could wash my hands mom would never know! He let me help and we spent a pleasant evening with dad painting the doors while I "helped" by painting the bottom with my chicken feather. Of course I was not very careful and soon I was covered with splatters of brown paint.
When I was older we would laugh about this story. Mom said dad was worried about using turpentine to clean off my hands since I was so delicate. He did his best to clean me off with a rag and then we set off for home to face mom's wrath. Fortunately she found it more funny than foolish. She thought it was funny how I told daddy if he helped me wash up mom would never know. I will always remember that. We did not spend a lot of time together one on one like that, but when we did it was very special. Even if it was doing something as mundane as painting some doors, dad with a broad even stroke, and me dabbing paint on with my chicken feather. After he died, I went to the tack room and rubbed my hand over the flaking brown paint we had put on all those years ago and it made me smile.
Happy Father's Day, daddy. I love you.
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