Anyone who has known me for a long time knows that I was a daddy’s girl. Before I was born, my parents had a little boy, and he died when he was two years old, so when I came along, I became like his little boy. We did all kinds of things together, like have battles in the backyard with water guns, and we used to play tricks on each other. I used to put salt in the sugar bowl, and when he went to make his coffee, he got a “big” surprise. To get back at me, he made my chocolate milk with buttermilk. I’ll never forget those times. We had so much fun. He took me on dates to see the Ice Capades and the Police Circus, and he used to make pancakes and waffles on Sundays after church. I thought he was the best father in the whole wide world. Also, on Sundays, my father used to read me the Sunday comics before I could read. One day, for some reason, I pulled the flowers out of the flower bed, and my punishment was that my father would no longer read me the comics. This forced me to learn to read, but the comics were never as funny as when my dad read them to me. As I became a better reader, I started to read a column by Art Buchwald, and I said to myself that I would love to make people laugh when I write. I never dreamed that I would be able to write an opinion column and hopefully make people laugh, think, or sometimes cry. I miss my father; he died at the age of 62. He had cancer. He died holding my hand. I was out shopping, and I got a call to come home right away. It was one of the saddest days ever. If you have your father still in your life, cherish the moments with him and celebrate him on Father’s Day.
Email the columnist at debbienorrell@aol.com
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