Man, it was tough to come up with a daddy story, because there are so many.
I think today I’ll talk about my daddy’s voice, though, because it’s… immense. Deep and growly and loud. I don’t think Daddy’s ever said a single thing in a whisper, not ever. Daddy lives his life in a shout, right out loud. I’ve heard it in sorrow, in fury, in laughter. I have heard it raised in anger in an argument, I’ve heard him gentle horses, make babies laugh.
One very special day, the day after my stepmom died, I sat in a truck and we sang “If We Can Make It Through December” together and we cried.
You haven’t lived until you’ve heard my daddy sing, “GOOD MORNING TO YOU! GOOD MORNING, I LOOOOOOOOOOVE YOU! GOOD MORNING TO YOU!” at the top of his lungs at dawn when he’s decided you’ve slept enough, thank you very much.
He answers the phone with “Squires”, and I always know if calls someone else baby on the phone he’s either taking to my sister Tiffy or my Aunt D.
We almost lost his voice in March. It’s different now — deeper, huskier, not quite the daddy-sound that I grew up with, but it’s still him, it’s my daddy, just altered the barest bit. Getting old sucks, but it’s better than the alternative.
My daddy told me once that his dad, my grampy, never said “I love you” out loud. Daddy knew Grampy loved him, but I can say that I have never spoken to my daddy once that he hasn’t told me, “I love you” when we parted — in person, on the computer, on the phone. I’ve never doubted, but he wants to make sure I hear it, that’s it’s always the last thing he’s said to me, just in case.
Happy birthday, Daddy.
I love you.