Dad

My mom met my dad in Germany, and within weeks they were ready to spend their lives together. My mom was lucky my dad didn't turn out to be some kind of axe murderer, but she couldn't have known until much later how very lucky she was. What are the odds that two people would meet while traveling in another country and in such a short time snatch each other up for good? And then that that man my mother found would turn out to be such a good one?

My dad is a California Highway Patrolman—a gun and badge, multi-holster, here-practice-shooting-this, don't-mess with my daughter cop. When one of my college boyfriends came to visit, my dad didn't care if he stayed in the bedroom next to me because he knew that if the guy tried anything, he'd wake up to the sounds of teenage boy screams. Because of Dad, I knew how to load and shoot at least three kinds of guns before I was twelve. And don't get me started on control holds.

But when it came to home and family, my dad dropped the drill sergeant routine. He was and still is very much a dad, and as tender and caring as any dad could be. He never quite figured out braiding my hair, but he always knows just when I need him to call.




I love you Dad!