Poor Dad

I know that I tend to mention Mom in a lot of my posts, especially lately. That’s because she actually READS this blog! Hey, it’s what Moms do. They support their children’s lame creative endeavors. She even saved a lot of those early crafts. They replaced pictures of my brother in the memory box, which is my explanation for why we only have three pictures of him. Well, he was a second child after all.


About my Dad. He did contribute to my childhood, but I don’t know that he actually reads this stuff. I’ll tell you about him though. He’s a writer. He doesn’t admit it, but he is. I remember reading some stuff he wrote when I was little. One story was about the brutal murder of a State Trooper. That one still haunts me, but not as much as the one story he wrote about Biker Boy, my brother.

That one haunts me for a different reason. Because I am a parent now, and remembering that story and the raw emotion contained within just makes me shudder. Through my eyes as a five year old there was nothing impressive about biker boy when he came home (as evidenced by the fact that I remember little about him until he was about 18 months old!). But he had some eventful early months and I know from reading that story that my parents lived those months with their hearts in their throats and their stomachs in knots. And I know this because it’s how I would feel now if it were my kids.

Dad is also a photographer. Always has been. He has a unique way of seeing the world. I swear, even without a viewfinder to look through, that’s what he sees. Composition, color, light, shadows, Photoshop. It’s what he lives for. It’s who he is!

I get my creative instincts from him. I love photography too. I enjoy writing. And I played trumpet in band in High School. Just like Dad.

Mom is a reader like me, and she taught me sew. And crochet. And cross-stitch. And how to cook.

And now you know all about my Dad, and what he is like (and a little more about my Mom).

P.S. Hi Mom! 🙂


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