(Mama hijacked my blog again.
I wish she'd get her own blog.
Until then, here she goes.)
I've been waxing poetic again about family.
I've been having a lot of scent memories lately.
I saw a can of Pillsbury Orange Danish at Albertson's this week.
You see, my Daddy used to work at Pillsbury when I was little.
He would bring home cases of biscuits, cinnamon rolls and Orange Danish.
Every weekend, Mama would cook them up.
I remember them fondly and as I smelled them cooking yesterday morning, I was missing my Daddy.
I have strong scent memories.
Do you?
For example, when I smell this:
or this
I think of him.
He was born in 1936, so he was an older dad.
Old School.
He shaved every day.
Wore black dress pants, white dress shirt and a jacket or cardigan.
Old School.
Black socks. Shiny, black dress shoes.
I remember his polishing his shoes.
Buffing them with an old sock.
So help me I've watched him mow the lawn with those black dress socks on.
Sometimes I get on the elevator at work and someone has Old Spice on,
it just slaps me in the face.
Sometimes it makes me smile.
Sometimes it makes me giggle.
Sometimes I get all teary.
Depends on the day.
He was a strict one.
He married my Mama when I was about a year old.
Only Daddy I've ever known.
He could whip that belt off in less than 5 seconds if you needed a whipping.
I'd like to think it had something to do with the polyester pants he was wearing.
I didn't get very many 'whippings' as a child.
Probably because I knew how fast he could get that belt off.
But, he built me a playhouse when I was a little girl.
He loved Christmas.
He managed to hide a puppy from me for 24 hours without my knowledge one Christmas Eve.
Although he said he hated dogs, he teased Buppy every evening when he got home. Rough-housed and let him bite his toes. Scratched that puppy's head with his feet.
Too funny.
He hated my music.
BUT, every day he took me to school, he let me turn it whatever station I wanted.
Tears for Fears, Culture Club, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Prince.
Sometimes, I even caught him singing along.
He was a stickler for school.
Good grades were not an option.
I was grounded for 6 weeks my Freshman year for making a C in Mrs. Venter's History Class.
Never happened again.
In the 8th grade, he let me try out for Cheerleader.
I swear I heard him gasp out loud at the parents meeting when they told us how much the whole shebang would cost.
Pompoms, bloomers and saddle shoes to come.
"That skirt sure is short!"
And 2 years later, he was at the information meeting when I wanted to be on the
"Touch of Gold Stingerettes Drill Team".
I don't think he gasped this time, but I know he was appalled.
Sequin gauntlets, white gloves and jazz shoes were in my future.
"That is all you're wearing on the football field?"
Let's not even talk about boyfriends, phone calls, clothes, make-up, hair-dos.
He was a grump about it all.
But I miss him.
Lost him January 2005. Heart attack.
I sure wish G-Man could meet him.
I think he'd be the kind of Grandpa who would slip him money when we weren't looking, who would give him candy and say: "now don't tell your Mama", who would take him out to the lake to look at the sailboats, who would take him to the Denison Dam to see the rushing water when the floodgates are open like he did when I was little.
Miss you, Daddy.
