Dear Daddy. . .Thank you
I'm a little biased here, but the guy in this pictures with the mustache and his arms around that lady who looks like me is pretty damned perfect. That's my Daddy. My rock. My ace. The man who never allowed me to believe that I couldn't do anything I put my mind to. A few things he tried to get me into didn't work out. Like basketball. He bought me a really nice one from the hardware store and I sat on it and read a book. This man still has my mold covered left handed softball glove at the house where I grew up. A few weeks ago, I asked him why was he keeping it and in Freddie fashion, he took the glove out of my hand and put it right back where I had gotten it from. That was the end of that conversation. When I realized I wanted to be writer, it was my Daddy who got me a typewriter, then a word processor and my first laptop. He suffered though the sound of a dot matrix printer going off in the middle of the night because I was printing my "book."