Yes, Little Weasel. There is a Santa Claus!

During his life, my father instilled in me many lessons that are much more important than anything I could ever learn in school.  He was a wonderful teacher, who taught me about life and how to truly get the most out of it.  I was lucky enough to learn at his knee philosophies on life that have rewarded me ten fold.

He taught me that my family is my greatest treasure.

He taught me to appreciate the friendship and devotion of a good dog.

He taught me to welcome each birthday as my own personal holiday, to be savored and enjoyed, no matter how many candles you have to blow out. (That is this coming Monday, btw)

And he taught me that, Yes, Little Weasel.  There is a Santa Claus!

Dad went to his grave still believing in Santa.  He took much flak over the years from co-workers and acquaintances who chided him about it, simply because they misunderstood.  Yet, he never quieted or back away from his belief.

As my siblings and I came of age to understand Santa on more than a magical level, he would explain to us that Santa is very much real and comes to us in ways never expected.  Santa is the spirit of doing for others.  Santa is the force behind small and large acts of kindness that you never take credit for.  Santa is the magic behind unexpected good will unto others and charitable acts to friends and strangers alike.  Santa is giving in the spirit of Christ and the God that St. Nicholas devoted his life too.

He taught me to never stop believing in Santa Claus and to continue his work throughout my life. 

I am proud to proclaim that I still believe in Santa and I am proud to be my father's daughter.

Happy Birthday, USMC!

Today is the 235th birthday of the United States Marine Corp, and by proxy - my father.

Dear old Dad left this earth twelve years ago, but he has never left my heart.  He left behind a wonderful legacy of children and grandchildren, but most importantly  he left behind his wisdom and knowledge for me to benefit from.

Dad was always the one I turned to when I had a problem or dilemma.  He was a great sounding board and always left you with food for thought from an angle that you hadn't considered.  He had a talent for simplifying what at first seemed to be the most complicated issues.  He was my pillar and my guide.

When we found out that Dad was dying and his time left on this earth would be very short, we were all upset.  It was odd to speak to someone about there own imminent death and get their input.  To grieve with the soon to be deceased was a gift that I will never forget.

I said to Dad, "I don't know how to live without you.  You are my pillar, you are my support, my shelter in a storm and that steady constant in my life.  Even though I am grown, it always comforts me to know that you are there".

Dad replied to me, "No.  You haven't needed me in years.  You have Mr. W.  he is your support, pillar and best friend.  He is the one you have depended on for years.  He is your comfort and your partner in life, just as it should be.  You will miss me, but you replaced me with your husband long ago."*

This gave me comfort and put everything into perspective.  He was right and only then did I realize that I was the last person to recognize that this morph had happened years prior.  Dad was still an important part in my life and I loved him, but he hadn't been the shelter that I would run to in an eon.

So yes, I miss Dad and think of him often, but I have survived and thrived just fine for more than a decade without him.  Most of all, I just want to wish him a Happy Birthday, on this his 2nd birthday of the year.

Semper Fi! 

Dad Would Be Jealous

Growing up we always had dogs. Dad was a lover of good dogs and by good he meant large, personality filled and well behaved. He was a big fan of the run of the mill, grungy mutt. A punt-able pure breed was nothing more than a glorified cat in his mind and Dad was not a fan of cats, much like Mom wasn't much a fan of pets of any species, with the exception of rock.

The dogs were always Dads responsibility and companions. He enjoyed their companionship and personalities, trained them well and loved them very much, but was never a doggy-daddy. He always looked on them as a dog. A loving pet that had a place in the family, but not that of human.

There was the occasional dog of a friend or neighbor, that he would have admiration and affection for, as long as they were big, well behaved and had strong personality (see above).

I have always had a natural affection for dogs and I inherited Dads penchant for enjoying big dogs. As a matter of fact, my dog affections are almost exclusively reserved for medium to large breed dogs. The one exception being a sweet little rag-mop, belonging to this lady, who had enough personality to win me over and help start a beautiful friendship.

I actually seem to have inherited many of my Dads traits, from my love and defense of cheap beer to my early morning rising and enjoyment of peace, quiet and coffee at obscene hours of the morning. As I sit in the quiet, alone with my thoughts, my trusty laptop and my dog, my mind wanders back to thoughts of my Dad. I think of how much I miss him and how much I truly enjoyed him. I think of how his relationship with his grandchildren would have been and I think about how I believe that Matilda The Hun would receive his stamp of approval.
Matilda is big and strong, relatively well behaved, loyal and loving and has a personality all of her own. She is clumsy, clunky and awkward. She is playful at times, but often resembles a bump on a log. She's incredibly smart, but has earned the nickname 'dummy', Ultra friendly to every man, beast or child as balanced with becoming protective of her family.

Not only do I think that Dad would approve and enjoy her, I think he would even be a little bit jealous.

Happy Fatherhood Friday! I encourage you to visit Dad-Blogs and click the FF links to get some great reading material on everything Fatherhood.

Dad's Are So Much More Than A Paycheck

Welcome to another addition of Fatherhood Friday a weekly project Sponsored by the fun folks over at dad-blogs. If you haven't joined dad-blogs, get on the ball. It's fun over there.

Growing up in the home that I did, my Dad was always out the door to work in the morning well before the rest of the house was awake. We never saw him on school mornings. He was not a part of the morning routine. We usually made ourselves some cereal or toast and got ourselves out to school with a little supervision from mom. I was in elementary school in a time when we walked ourselves to school and everyone went home for lunch. Mom let us fix for ourselves what we wished to eat in the limited time we had to eat lunch and get back to school (12:30-1:20).

This was the very late 70's or the very early early 80's. Most of you will remember that these were some very tough economic times. The economy was in the tank, unemployment was high and American hostages were being held in Iran. I guess that pinpoints this story to fall of 1979- spring of 1980.

My Dad, like so many others, was laid off right before Thanksgiving. Ours was a house with 5 kids and a SAHM, just like almost every house on the block. This had to be a very scary time for my parents and especially Dad, who had the responsibility of being the bread winner.

However, we kids never saw the stress and the worry. We were too young or too naive, but most of all I think it's that Dad worked hard to keep us protected from how bad things were.

Every morning Dad would wake us up for school and tell us to get dressed while he went to the kitchen and made us breakfast. Oatmeal. With butter, white sugar, raisins and milk. Every morning. Every morning. Every morning. Do you remember the movie Groundhog Day?

When it was time for lunch, we walked in the door to sandwiches waiting on the table. Peanut butter and jelly or bologna. Any of the regular folks around here may remember that I am a picky eater. I'll eat a peanut butter sandwich on white bread, but you have to hold the jelly. I'll only eat bologna if it's 1 extra thin slice between 2 pieces of white toast. Dad didn't know these slight intricacies of my diet. He had never been around at lunch time. I didn't have the heart or the courage to tell him, so I would just sit and stare at my plate and Dad would get frustrated that I wouldn't eat.

We kids were used to our independence in these areas and we liked our routine. Dad was throwing a monkey wrench into the way we were accustomed to going about our day. We were cringing at being served and waited on, when we should have been appreciating it.

Eventually, Dad pulled out of me the issues that I had with the lunch menu and would then make sure my sandwich was made to specs. The oatmeal continued because he knew we liked it (although who could like it every single day?) and it was the cheapest way to feed us all a hot breakfast.

Sometime in the spring, right around Easter, Dad found a new job. Once again we would not see Dad in the mornings or at lunch. Like it used to be, we would not see him until he came home in time for dinner. Once again, I was too young and to naive to appreciate the significance of what this meant for our family. I was just happy to have that bit of independence back in my life. I was surprised to realize that I missed him and those meals, once he returned to the work force. Looking back that time holds some of my best childhood memories.

Mr. Weasel has been laid-off since early November. We have 5 kids to provide for. This has been a very stressful and worrisome five months. And it's a stress that we have striven to protect the Weasels from. Mr Weasel has been a big part of daily life around here. He has been making school lunches and steaming bowls of oatmeal. Eyes have been rolled. It took him a while to understand and remember the intricacies of our pickiest (Monkey Weasel) eaters diet.

He's made the most of this time off to chaperon school field trips and attend school parties. These are things that he never had the opportunity to do before. He's taken part in driving the kids to school and playing RockBand with them.

We are happily anticipating Mr. Weasel going back to work very soon. After all, it's almost Easter and everything else seems so parallel to my childhood. Not to mention there is very good prospect in the wings.

I know that I will miss him being around during the day when it does happen. And I think that will be true for all of the Weasels too. Even if they don't know it yet. Because dads are so much more than a paycheck.

Dear Old Dad

Reading this, written by the beautiful, tiara wearing Melisa, reminded me of a childhood memory involving Dear Old Dad.

When I was a kid, we had a dog named Bugs. He was an ugly as sin, medium sized mutt from the SPCA. Aptly named because he looked like the kind of dog that lived under a porch and had, well bugs. Not your average pet by any means. Bugs was exceptionally smart, highly protective of us kids and took his roll as protector very seriously, but never saw himself as a pet or a house dog. He had his own social life and to do list for the day, but always managed to keep tabs on the family.

He actually had his own crowd that he ran around with in a pack of sorts. I kid you not. Every morning, some neighborhood pooches would start to gather and wait across the street from our house. No owners. No leashes, but a definite agenda. Bugs would wait patiently for his moment of opportunity and the second someone opened the door for anything, he would escape. The pack would wait for Bugs and then all take off for the day to run around the neighborhood. Over the years, we figured out of few of their daily stops. A regular favorite was the back door of a local diner, where the cook would feed them some leftover scraps. The last stop of the day for Bugs would be to show up as my Dad was getting out of work and into the car. Then he would follow the car home and be in for the night.

There would often be complaints and mothers up in arms, as the pack found themselves getting into constant trouble for picking on someones pedigree dog (really, they hated a pedigree), chasing someones cat or my favorite, hunting and catching pigeons in front of small children (they really got a kick out this ~ the dogs, not the kids).

Every once in a while Bugs would get picked up by the dog catcher. Probably just so his buds could get away clean. This unnerved Dad. It was $25.00 to spring him. Dad loved Bugs, but didn't believe in putting out money that he didn't have, especially for a dog. A dog that we couldn't keep in the house no matter what amount of effort was made.

Bugs was becoming a regular in the slammer. The people at animal control were never pleasant when bond was being posted for him. Dad would have to drive a 1/2 hour, fight parking and in his mind waste another $25.00, 3 of his least favorite things to do on his day off.

One Saturday, I woke up to Dad emptying the penny bucket onto the kitchen table. I asked what he was doing as he counted it out in piles. "I'm going to spring Bugs, he was caught again". "with pennies?" I had to ask, "yup" was Dad's reply.

It wasn't that Dad didn't have cash to use, he was just aggravated. If he had to drive to the dog pound and deal with less than friendly desk workers and pay the fine, he was going to make sure that it wasn't pleasant for them either. So he counted out $25.00 in pennies (not rolled either), bagged it up and headed to pick up his dog.

He was greeted with the same level of deference and disapproval as ever. He put his bag on the counter and stated "here it is". Mr. 'I hate you and your dogs guts' said he couldn't accept it, "it's pennies". Dad informed him that it was indeed U.S. currency and that he had to accept it". He wasn't taking no for and answer. Counter dude starting counting the money. It took a while and when finished counting, looked to Dad with a nasty smirk "you're 22 cents short". Dad, having known this and having stashed that last 22 cents in his pocket, answered back "count it again". Deflated, Counter Dude said that he would just put the rest in himself.

Dad retrieved Bugs and headed home, maintaining a little spring in his step for the rest of the day.

As an aside, if you haven't *read this* yet, go do it. NukeDad has Flat WeaselMomma on the lamb and she's had to leave the country.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today is my Dad's birthday. It's not the actual anniversary of his birth, but his '2nd birthday' as he used to refer to it. Today marks the 233rd Birthday of the United States Marine Corps. Dad was a Marine. I know, I know, 'Once a Marine always a Marine', but Dad passed away 10 years ago. So 'was' seems an appropriate term.

Dad loved his birthdays, both of them. That is where I learned to love my birthday. Not that a kid needs a reason to love their birthday, but he taught me to always enjoy my birthday no matter how many years it was that I was celebrating. He taught me that my birthday was my own special day and that I should treat it as a special holiday. Through the years, I have realized that on this and many other topics, Dad was right. He was never about presents and cake, just about remembering and gesturing.

Dad always celebrated the Marine Corps Birthday. He always took a vacation day from work for each of his birthdays, although he rarely took a sick day. As a child he would always convince his mother to let him stay home from school as his present. None of his 7 siblings ever got the day off.

Dad never reminded us his 2nd birthday was coming. He never expected presents. He just wanted us to remember and acknowledge. Year after year we would wake up for school, enter the kitchen, see Dad and say "Why are you home?". "It's my birthday." was the response. Oops, forgot again!

Today I have not forgotten. Nor have I since I reached adulthood.

Dad was a real special kind of guy. Lots of people think that about their dad, but he really was. He was Joe six-pack. Jack of some trades, master of none. He was a dependable friend, a completely devoted husband and a great Dad.

Dad never gave himself credit for being very smart. He hated school and struggled with his classes. He used to call himself a 'dummy', but he was one of the smartest people I have ever met. He would discuss any subject. If it was something he didn't know about, he wanted to listen and learn. If it was a subject he disagreed about, he wanted to understand the other side. And if it was something that required thought, he was a man you wanted to hear from.

Dad was always extremely well thought out. He could always offer you a different prospective and a reason. You would never walk away without food for thought. He was a good sounding board and a great counselor.

Dad is also where I developed my sense of humor. He loved a good joke, especially if the players weren't in on it. He derived enjoyment from small pleasures and was self entertaining. Dad would stir up trouble just to watch it play out and have a good laugh. As we got older he would fill us in and have us enjoy the laugh with him as we watched the scene play out. Most of it was gut busting funny. He knew how to stir a pot. He could also entertain the room with the best stories. He was a one of a kind.

Dad understood how to handle a teenager. He knew how to get through to us when screaming and grounding were no longer deterrents and abuse had been outlawed. Once, and only once, on a Friday night when I was 18 ,and home from college for the summer, I stayed out all night all night at a local bar with friends (don't gasp like you never). I came home barely in time to change into my work clothes and in no condition to go to work at 6 a.m. Dad sat at the kitchen and said nothing more than 'good morning" when I entered the house. I changed and left for work ( a 2 block walk) and endured 8 hrs in an unforgiving, un-airconditioned kitchen in the city during August. Needless to say, by the time my shift was over at 2, I was ready for some rest and recuperation. I was sick to my stomach, sweaty, head pounding and exhausted. All I wanted was to hit my bed.

After I entered the house and before I could hit the sheets, Dad said to me "I need you to do me a favor". That was the unspoken kiss of death and I knew it. "I need my whites(laundry) washed for the morning". After that it was 'could you shine up my shoes, take care of the kitchen, the rug needs some attention, and the list when on and on until he showed some mercy around 10 p.m. I got the message. I never pulled that trick again.

There have been many times since his death that I have wished for his council, advice, comfort. There have been times that I have longed for his wisdom and company.

Today I will continue a tradition that began when I finally started remembering this birthday. I will bake a Birthday cake. I will not let the Weasels have any until they sing Happy Birthday to the Marine Corps. I think Dad would get a kick out of that.

I could go on until this became a book. There is so much more I could say say. So many more stories to tell. But what it boils down to is this; I love you Dad, Happy Birthday.

And a Happy Birthday to the Marine Corps and all Marines. Thank you for your your service. Semper Fi.