My dad turned 70 last month. Months before the occasion, us kids started up a flurry of emailing, trying to figure out how best to celebrate the birthday of our patriarch. Actually, the spouses of us kids started it, because while we're all kind of laid-back, some of us had the sense to marry go-getters (And I only say "some of us" because I'm not married yet).
So we decided to celebrate the momentous occasion at Thanksgiving by putting together a great big scrapbook full of pictures and memories. My assignment was simple: just write something. Fine, I can do that.
So I reproduce for you here The Daddy Essays, so named because they were written for Daddy's scrapbook. Happy Birthday, Daddy.
My Hero
It was sometime before lunch on a day midway through my senior year of high school when I found out that I had a flat tire. A friend of mine had gone to an orthodontist appointment and happened to notice that a quarter of my car was sitting a little lower than the other three quarters on his way in from the parking lot. I should’ve noticed the flat tire earlier myself. I had noticed the way the car pulled when I drove it to school, but it never occurred to me that there might be a problem. Yeah, I’m clueless.
So I had a flat tire and no idea how to fix it, though I was pretty sure I had a spare and a jack in the trunk somewhere. So I do what I always do the car has a problem. I called my daddy.
Daddy has always been our resident Fix-It man, both for our home and our cars. All those basic auto maintenance and repairs were taken care of by a different Mr. G than Mr. Goodwrench. He did it quick, he did it right, and he left oil smudges all over the steering wheel, but he did it for free. So I wasn’t too worried about the tire, because I knew a good mechanic.
But my good mechanic wasn’t home, or at least he wasn’t answering the phone. I left a detailed cry for help, telling him that my car was in space 169 (second row from the end) and that there was an issue. But I wasn’t hopeful. There was no guarantee he’d be home before school was out, and he didn’t always check the messages when he came in.
So then what? I spent my last classes of the day in despair. True, I didn’t have anywhere I needed to go after school, but there were places I wanted to go, like home. Who would help poor little me, a delicate flower of a girl with less than the average knowledge of auto mechanics?
Big, strong men, of course, or at least high school boys who worked out. All I had to do was woefully mention my predicament, and I had a sea of volunteers to save me from my troubles. I had forgotten that females held the power of the damsel in distress, though I had learned it years ago in a sixth grade frisbee-in-a-tree incident.
I walked out to the parking lot at the end of the day with two or three high school boys that worked out trotting along with me. Actually, they were strutting, and I was just trying hard not to laugh. We arrived at parking space 169 (second row from the end) to find my Corolla standing evenly on four tires full of air. My daddy, my mechanic, had come and fixed it while I sat worrying inside, leaving no note or indications that he had even been there other than the newly-repaired condition of the car.
The high school boys who worked out, who had previously been arguing over who was to change my tire and how best to do it, now were silent, lost and without purpose. They did not get to rescue the damsel in the tower because the dragon had already been killed by a mysterious knight, though the damsel did say “Thanks anyway!” before driving off. They had been beaten to the punch by a big, strong man.
My hero.
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