(no subject)
My dad was in town this weekend. And while my mom is my go to, my best friend, my confidante, my dad is equally as important to me. Even more so sometimes.
I was daddy's little girl until I reached the surly teenage years and then there was no bridging the gap between us. He couldn't possibly understand me, we came from different worlds, and in mine, I was always right. Cue the beginning of the bratty age.
However, my applying to colleges was of great interest to my dad. I'd always done well in school and was 120% excited to research schools, fill out my applications, write my essays and figure out my next step. My dad liked this too.
We have always been the academics of the family. My dad's not as nerdy as I am and Robby and my Mom are equally as intelligent (if not more so) in their own ways. But we were the ones who studied, worked hard, and enjoyed learning. Me more so than my dad because I had a great elementary, secondary and high school education. My dad was tossed around in those days. He grew up in the city and went to city schools. And then in the 1960s, the schools became integrated and things changed. They moved to Webster after awhile and had to start over again. My dad was transitioning from middle school to high school at that time. My grandfather was swedish and a good, generous, kind man. He didn't give a hoot what race a person was. He used to make my dad and his brothers go and introduce themselves to anyone and everyone regardless of race, ethnicity or religion. He didn't care, they were neighborhood kids and they were expected to be friends. I loved learning this fact about my grandpa.
Now as for Grandpa Minchella, a police detective during Rochester's race riots, it's a whole other story. Italian, suspicious and protective, my mom's upbringing was a bit different.
My father said that he'd really liked English as a subject during his elementary school days. He regressed to my great grandmother who was similar to her daughter (my favorite person). A strong and independent woman, my grandmother grew up in Canada and played hockey. Her father had been the captain of a ship that navigated the St. Lawrence, transporting cargo from Montreal to Toronto and back. My great Uncle Bert (my father's favorite person) used to be his first mate at a time when the St. Lawrence was unchartered rapids, when technology was still relatively new, and when the world was changing. My Uncle Bert never married. We knew him as this living legend who died when I was 11 years old and who I only remember as the source behind many of my father's best stories. Robby remembers the details. Stories of exploration and adventure, stories of climbing mountains, jumping down water falls and searching caves, stories of my dad and his brothers in backgrounds I would never associate with them. So my great grandmother. She was apparently amazing at crossword puzzles, even better than my grandma, according to my father. When she was getting up there and had been confined to her bed, she would make her grandchildren sit with her and go through the synonyms, antonyms and homonyms (!) of a whole list of words.
I love this image. My father is a pain in the neck and he was even more so as a child. He'd burn ants with magnifying glasses, skip school to go fishing, he even got lost once, took a boat out without asking or telling anyone and ran out of gas and got stuck out on the lake. He was everything that I wasn't.
But listening to him talk, I realized that I'm so much more like my grandma and my great grandma than I had previously thought. And he was proud of them and he's proud of me. I have sought my father's approval for years and years. The histrionic, attention-seeking side of me? That, in part, is for my dad. The other part is that I have drama queen tendencies. Makes for one hell of powerful combination.
My dad walked into the restaurant (we went to the union oyster house for lobsters) and gave me a quick hug and a kiss before grabbing onto my ponytail, remarking that my hair was getting long and yanking it back toward the lobster tank for a quick chop. I love my father. For his spontaneity, for his playfulness, for his ability to pick and choose what he's going to pay attention to and then ignoring the rest. I love him for his cocktail-induced compliments: "I like hanging out with you, when'd you get to be so cool? You used to be such a dweeb" and my personal favorite, "Why are you smiling so much? I think you've smiled more tonight than I have in all of 2006."
My dad is proud of me for this reason too: I am living the life that nobody else in my family chose. I'm not married to my high school sweetheart. I didn't meet that sweetheart in college either. I don't even have any prospects. I'm finally on that adventure that he wanted for me. I'm not playing it safe and sheltered like I used to. I've made choices that have gotten me this far and I'm going to keep moving forward. I have potential and I want to live up to it.
My dad is the one who has faith in my skills as a writer. I'm not saying that this entry is anything to write home about but my dad's the one who encourages my writing. He really understands what's behind it. He says, take your thoughts and spill them out on paper, don't aim for perfect, just get it out there. A writer is someone who writes to be read. Not someone who writes to be perfect and then keeps it all to him or herself, waiting for that piece of perfection to materialize.
Well, I'll tell you what. I could never do perfect. My motive behind writing isn't to be a great writer. It's not to have rave reviews, it's not even to be remembered. It's to hit someone, anyone, unexpectedly. To make them think about something they had never thought about before. It's to open something up in you that you didn't know was there. Preferably, it's to take the non-readers and to awaken their thoughts, to make them excited to learn something new or think about something different.
My father came up this weekend to visit me. The sole intention for his visit was to spend time with me. If you'd have asked me 6 years ago if this would ever be the case, I would've laughed away the question. I was excited for him to come up. I planned dinner and a hike at blue hills reservation over in Milton. Nobody hikes with me here. And that was something that was always pretty big in our family. At blue hills, we hiked the blue trail, up a mountain to the water tower for about an hour and 15 minutes or so. There's a total rush to getting to the top. I gained some of my confidence during our arizona/grand canyon trip and then completely after the cinque terre. I'm obviously gawky, I have cloddish feet and scrawny ankles that make me susceptible to twists, sprains, spills and the like. But, I have muscles in my legs that are defined from a year of hard and consistent gym work. And hiking is a nice reminder that exercise can be different, challenging and rewarding, not just me and kristin gossiping away on lifefitness machines. We had a good time.
I'm kind of a chatterbox around my father so I did most of the talking the second day. I think my dad was spent from recounting the past and my ancestors the night before. After the hike, I drove us out to Sudbury to show my dad where I worked and where I spent most of my time. I drove by my Maynard office and then did a roundabout loop of the houses that I gaze at everyday. They're houses with character. I don't like big cookie cutter houses. I like balconies and columns and widow's walks. I like turrets and anything reminiscent of castles. I like barns and idllyic meadows and tulips--lots and lots of tulips. I like western ranch fences and ponds and lilypads and gazebos and gardens and vineyards and trellises. I like nature and I like Massachusetts. I like this one route that I drive through when I don't want to go back to work. And so I took him there. I showed him my favorite parts. I took him to the cafe that I go every day for lunch. I warned him that I was kind of a big deal at this place since I've gone there nearly every day since August '04. He didn't believe me. And yet, the owner was there and came out to meet my dad and say that I was one of their favorite customers. To which I just grinned, they've collected my $3.10 for a half sandwich ever since the price rose back in January of '05. They better like me!
I am nothing if not a creature of habit.
We were tired by this point and we looked terrible so I suggested we go back and take a nap or change or something. My dad was staying in a hotel down in Faneuil, which I've never actually driven to. Rather than risk me getting lost (a probable occurrence), we decided to press on and go to the movies instead. I suggested the Sentinel since I was positive he'd hate American Dreamz or anything else I wanted to see. It was pretty good. One of those mindless movies where you just let yourself be swept up in the action. And not too long either so that was nice.
We then decided that we weren't TOO hungry so why not have ice cream for dinner instead? Reason #588 why my dad is great. We went to Emack & Bolio's for dad's waffle cone of two scoops of peanut butter and vanilla ice cream and my two scoops (hey, I hiked) peppermint patty dish with chocolate sprinkles. It was heaven in the form of sugar. My first ice cream of the season too.
So by then, we were tired (I felt like a zombie) and my dad called a cab and went back to his hotel. He flew home the next morning on the standby early flight, back to my mother who'd only called 10 times that weekend. She must've missed him because she never calls me that many times (only about 5 times a weekend).
All in all, it was a wonderful visit. It was so nice to hear that my dad is proud of me. Because deep down, no matter how much you know it, you just need to hear it sometimes. The other things I'm taking away from this experience are that he believes in me and that I remind him of two women who he admired. To know that he thinks that I'm like my grandma is probably the greatest compliment he could ever give me. I am so glad that we had this weekend. And that the lobster didn't cut off my hair.
I was daddy's little girl until I reached the surly teenage years and then there was no bridging the gap between us. He couldn't possibly understand me, we came from different worlds, and in mine, I was always right. Cue the beginning of the bratty age.
However, my applying to colleges was of great interest to my dad. I'd always done well in school and was 120% excited to research schools, fill out my applications, write my essays and figure out my next step. My dad liked this too.
We have always been the academics of the family. My dad's not as nerdy as I am and Robby and my Mom are equally as intelligent (if not more so) in their own ways. But we were the ones who studied, worked hard, and enjoyed learning. Me more so than my dad because I had a great elementary, secondary and high school education. My dad was tossed around in those days. He grew up in the city and went to city schools. And then in the 1960s, the schools became integrated and things changed. They moved to Webster after awhile and had to start over again. My dad was transitioning from middle school to high school at that time. My grandfather was swedish and a good, generous, kind man. He didn't give a hoot what race a person was. He used to make my dad and his brothers go and introduce themselves to anyone and everyone regardless of race, ethnicity or religion. He didn't care, they were neighborhood kids and they were expected to be friends. I loved learning this fact about my grandpa.
Now as for Grandpa Minchella, a police detective during Rochester's race riots, it's a whole other story. Italian, suspicious and protective, my mom's upbringing was a bit different.
My father said that he'd really liked English as a subject during his elementary school days. He regressed to my great grandmother who was similar to her daughter (my favorite person). A strong and independent woman, my grandmother grew up in Canada and played hockey. Her father had been the captain of a ship that navigated the St. Lawrence, transporting cargo from Montreal to Toronto and back. My great Uncle Bert (my father's favorite person) used to be his first mate at a time when the St. Lawrence was unchartered rapids, when technology was still relatively new, and when the world was changing. My Uncle Bert never married. We knew him as this living legend who died when I was 11 years old and who I only remember as the source behind many of my father's best stories. Robby remembers the details. Stories of exploration and adventure, stories of climbing mountains, jumping down water falls and searching caves, stories of my dad and his brothers in backgrounds I would never associate with them. So my great grandmother. She was apparently amazing at crossword puzzles, even better than my grandma, according to my father. When she was getting up there and had been confined to her bed, she would make her grandchildren sit with her and go through the synonyms, antonyms and homonyms (!) of a whole list of words.
I love this image. My father is a pain in the neck and he was even more so as a child. He'd burn ants with magnifying glasses, skip school to go fishing, he even got lost once, took a boat out without asking or telling anyone and ran out of gas and got stuck out on the lake. He was everything that I wasn't.
But listening to him talk, I realized that I'm so much more like my grandma and my great grandma than I had previously thought. And he was proud of them and he's proud of me. I have sought my father's approval for years and years. The histrionic, attention-seeking side of me? That, in part, is for my dad. The other part is that I have drama queen tendencies. Makes for one hell of powerful combination.
My dad walked into the restaurant (we went to the union oyster house for lobsters) and gave me a quick hug and a kiss before grabbing onto my ponytail, remarking that my hair was getting long and yanking it back toward the lobster tank for a quick chop. I love my father. For his spontaneity, for his playfulness, for his ability to pick and choose what he's going to pay attention to and then ignoring the rest. I love him for his cocktail-induced compliments: "I like hanging out with you, when'd you get to be so cool? You used to be such a dweeb" and my personal favorite, "Why are you smiling so much? I think you've smiled more tonight than I have in all of 2006."
My dad is proud of me for this reason too: I am living the life that nobody else in my family chose. I'm not married to my high school sweetheart. I didn't meet that sweetheart in college either. I don't even have any prospects. I'm finally on that adventure that he wanted for me. I'm not playing it safe and sheltered like I used to. I've made choices that have gotten me this far and I'm going to keep moving forward. I have potential and I want to live up to it.
My dad is the one who has faith in my skills as a writer. I'm not saying that this entry is anything to write home about but my dad's the one who encourages my writing. He really understands what's behind it. He says, take your thoughts and spill them out on paper, don't aim for perfect, just get it out there. A writer is someone who writes to be read. Not someone who writes to be perfect and then keeps it all to him or herself, waiting for that piece of perfection to materialize.
Well, I'll tell you what. I could never do perfect. My motive behind writing isn't to be a great writer. It's not to have rave reviews, it's not even to be remembered. It's to hit someone, anyone, unexpectedly. To make them think about something they had never thought about before. It's to open something up in you that you didn't know was there. Preferably, it's to take the non-readers and to awaken their thoughts, to make them excited to learn something new or think about something different.
My father came up this weekend to visit me. The sole intention for his visit was to spend time with me. If you'd have asked me 6 years ago if this would ever be the case, I would've laughed away the question. I was excited for him to come up. I planned dinner and a hike at blue hills reservation over in Milton. Nobody hikes with me here. And that was something that was always pretty big in our family. At blue hills, we hiked the blue trail, up a mountain to the water tower for about an hour and 15 minutes or so. There's a total rush to getting to the top. I gained some of my confidence during our arizona/grand canyon trip and then completely after the cinque terre. I'm obviously gawky, I have cloddish feet and scrawny ankles that make me susceptible to twists, sprains, spills and the like. But, I have muscles in my legs that are defined from a year of hard and consistent gym work. And hiking is a nice reminder that exercise can be different, challenging and rewarding, not just me and kristin gossiping away on lifefitness machines. We had a good time.
I'm kind of a chatterbox around my father so I did most of the talking the second day. I think my dad was spent from recounting the past and my ancestors the night before. After the hike, I drove us out to Sudbury to show my dad where I worked and where I spent most of my time. I drove by my Maynard office and then did a roundabout loop of the houses that I gaze at everyday. They're houses with character. I don't like big cookie cutter houses. I like balconies and columns and widow's walks. I like turrets and anything reminiscent of castles. I like barns and idllyic meadows and tulips--lots and lots of tulips. I like western ranch fences and ponds and lilypads and gazebos and gardens and vineyards and trellises. I like nature and I like Massachusetts. I like this one route that I drive through when I don't want to go back to work. And so I took him there. I showed him my favorite parts. I took him to the cafe that I go every day for lunch. I warned him that I was kind of a big deal at this place since I've gone there nearly every day since August '04. He didn't believe me. And yet, the owner was there and came out to meet my dad and say that I was one of their favorite customers. To which I just grinned, they've collected my $3.10 for a half sandwich ever since the price rose back in January of '05. They better like me!
I am nothing if not a creature of habit.
We were tired by this point and we looked terrible so I suggested we go back and take a nap or change or something. My dad was staying in a hotel down in Faneuil, which I've never actually driven to. Rather than risk me getting lost (a probable occurrence), we decided to press on and go to the movies instead. I suggested the Sentinel since I was positive he'd hate American Dreamz or anything else I wanted to see. It was pretty good. One of those mindless movies where you just let yourself be swept up in the action. And not too long either so that was nice.
We then decided that we weren't TOO hungry so why not have ice cream for dinner instead? Reason #588 why my dad is great. We went to Emack & Bolio's for dad's waffle cone of two scoops of peanut butter and vanilla ice cream and my two scoops (hey, I hiked) peppermint patty dish with chocolate sprinkles. It was heaven in the form of sugar. My first ice cream of the season too.
So by then, we were tired (I felt like a zombie) and my dad called a cab and went back to his hotel. He flew home the next morning on the standby early flight, back to my mother who'd only called 10 times that weekend. She must've missed him because she never calls me that many times (only about 5 times a weekend).
All in all, it was a wonderful visit. It was so nice to hear that my dad is proud of me. Because deep down, no matter how much you know it, you just need to hear it sometimes. The other things I'm taking away from this experience are that he believes in me and that I remind him of two women who he admired. To know that he thinks that I'm like my grandma is probably the greatest compliment he could ever give me. I am so glad that we had this weekend. And that the lobster didn't cut off my hair.