Thursday, June 26, 2014
After so many years it was difficult to come up with something meaningful, and not just a trivial trinket that would be tossed in a drawer and forgotten.
My dad was gone so much of the time we were growing up, and when he was home, sometimes it was good, sometimes not so good.
But I think because he was out of our lives for long stretches of time, memories of our times together were easier to gather from the depths of my mind than if he had been around us day to day.
I wrote of everything I could remember, good memories, bad memories, and stories he had to told me.
I remembered the time, when I was probably 12, he and I had tickets to see Willie Nelson. I was SO looking forward to it, but being a corporate pilot he was always on call. He was called to fly for the month a few days before the concert. I was crushed.
I never said anything to him about how hurt I had been, but he knew. When he finally got back home, he gave me a necklace. Of course with him being a pilot, and having no idea what to get a 12 year old girl, on the necklace hung a small jet. I treasured that necklace, but over the years it was lost, but memories of it will forever remain.
I wrote of forging his signature on my report cards, of him making us toys. I reminded him of taking me flying and sailing, taking me out of school, and telling me never to tell mom. I wrote of him teaching me to fish, eat oysters, and to not take shit from anyone.
There was so much more. He taught us about Bilderberg, he told us of outrageous, behind the scenes stories, of rock stars and politicians.
Dad had such an exciting life, and we were always eager to hear of his tales of intrigue, true or not, they were captivating.
I found out, after mom was killed and Dad and I spent more time together than ever before, how much that book meant to him. He told me he cried when he read it, and that he read it time and time again.
He said he cried because he was always afraid that because he was taken from us so often, due the nature of his job, we would never have memories of him. As he told me that I cried. I had no idea, something I thought would mean so little, meant so much.
On this day, June 26, 1938, Julian Park Anderson was born in Greenville, South Carolina. Today I smile, I cry, I rejoice, and I remember my father on his 75th birthday.
|Taking Nikki for a spin.|
|Placing a rose on Mom's casket.|
|This was the night after we made Mom's funeral arrangements. He was totally toasted!|
|Dad with his first baby, me.|
|Hanging with two of his granddaughters.|
Happy Birthday Dad. I so love you!