Both of these stories are mostly about my dad and me--I suppose I could use either of them or even combine them if I wanted to. I'm not sure, though, if I can get away with "funny" as opposed to "touching," so let me know what you think.
I was more than just blessed to get the parents I did. I couldn’t even begin to tell you all the wonderful things about either of them or how much I admire them (although I will try throughout my stories). They each had their strengths and weaknesses. My mother was such a compassionate woman; she was always the one I could count on to receive praise for everything I did. I didn’t realize it until I was older, but my innate personality included an acute need to please people, especially authority figures, and most especially my parents. I never had to wonder if Mom was proud of me; that’s one of the things I appreciate the most about her now. It was different with Dad. I always knew he loved me and was proud of me, but he did not give praise as easily or often as Mom did. Perhaps that’s why it was his approval I craved more than anyone else’s.
While it would be nearly impossible to pinpoint any specific praises from my mother, I can distinctly remember a couple from my Dad. This one was a few years ago—I was probably about fourteen. It happened in the kitchen; I think it was just Mom, Dad, and me there. We were talking about taxes—I don’t remember how they came up. I think I must have said something about the democrats always wanting to raise taxes.
Dad, being the conservative politician he was, began talking about how ridiculous this was. Eventually he said something like, “You see, republicans like President Bush tend to lower taxes. Some liberal dummies will say, ‘But if you lower taxes, you lose government money.’ But it’s not that simple. Think about it—what do we do with money that we don’t pay in taxes?”
“We spend it,” I said promptly.
“Right. Of course, we’ll have to spend some of it on things like food, but most of our money will be spent on bigger things like houses, land, cars, boats, and other stuff. When people buy things, especially those big things, it strengthens the economy. When the economy is strong, people make more money.”
I muddled through that for a second and then made an educated guess. “And when people make more money, they pay more taxes.”
Dad’s eyes lit up; he leaned forward and pointed emphatically at me, jabbing his finger at each of his words: “Good girl. That’s exactly right.”
I can still see that. Even now. He must have gone on to finish his argument and convince me that the republicans had the right idea about taxes. But I don’t remember anything specific before or after he called me his good girl. Those two words sent a smile bubbling up from my very guts, a glowing through layers of blood and thick skin. I can’t remember moment where I felt so fulfilled.
As you could probably guess, I’ve been a republican ever since.
A true story about why I am sometimes called a “daddy’s girl”:
On our way to Pine Valley Reservoir for our Pike Family vacation in summer 2010, we had a slight detour. We were using instructions from Mapquest (our first mistake). About fifteen minutes from our destination, we missed the left turn that would have taken us straight to Eden, where we would be staying. It had come up faster than Mapquest had made it sound. As soon as we passed it, our navigator, Mom, said, “Oh, shoot—I think that was the turn!”
“You think it was the turn?” cried my dad, who was driving.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it was.”
“Is that what the directions said?”
“I think so . . . ” and she proceeded to read off the last few lines of the map. It was enough to convince my dad, but I knew from the way he lowered his head and stiffened his arms that there was no way he was going to make this easy.
“I think we need to turn around,” Mom admitted.
“We’re not turning around.”
A patience-gathering pause. “Look, I’m sorry I made us miss the turn. It was completely my fault. But I don’t know my way around up here—I won’t be able to get us there if we don’t go back.”
“You didn’t get us there the first time!” Dad hands out accusations like candy canes—not too often, but with exuberance in the times he deems appropriate.
“So what now—we going to drive around the whole lake?”
“Yup.”
All apologies evaporated, Mom sat back in her seat for a long silence and a longer drive. Even the ruffians in the backseat had the sense to shut up. I let things simmer for a minute until I caught Dad covertly searching for a shoulder wide enough for him to pull over and turn around. Not that he would have—he passed up a few good ones. But it was my signal that his defenses were weakening. So I threw on my casual voice and asked Mom if I could see the map. She handed it to me with a surrendering look, to which I replied with an “I got this” jerk of the head.
After a quick study of the directions, I said, “Yup—that was the turn, all right. Weird, how much shorter .7 miles is on the road than on paper . . . ” The quiet that followed did not worry me.
“So how far is it around the lake, Daddy?” (I’d gotten into the habit of calling him that a month before because it tended to get me places.)
“Probably another half-hour. Maybe more,” he grouched.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully. Then I waited again until his hands began to slack a bit.
“You know, Mom did say she needed some caffeine for her headache,” I mused after spotting a gas station posing as a cabin a quarter-mile ahead. “We could pull into that little station there to get Mom a Dr. Pepper and then turn around on our way out.”
“I’m okay,” Mom muttered at me. I gave her an apologetic/defensive shrug and waited for Dad to respond.
“We don’t need to stop,” Dad mumbled as we approached the gas station, and I wondered if I had misjudged the situation. But then at the last second, he turned jarringly into the parking lot and flipped around towards the missed turn.
Not another word was spoken until we had reached the outskirts of Eden and Dad began pointing out old homesteads and routes to neighboring towns. By the time we pulled up to the condo, my dad was in high spirits, my sibs had returned to their usual rowdiness, and my mom looked ready to sigh of either relief or complete submission of will. I didn’t remember to be smug until I caught Mom recounting the story of my coerciveness to my aunts and uncles later that night. She was a good loser—somewhere between admiring of and amused at my triumph.
Was I touched that I was apparently close enough to my dad to change his stubborn mind? Sure. But the overwhelming thought in my head that night was slightly less noble:
“Man, I’m good.”
