My Daddy

People who "ain't from 'round here" make fun because Southern-raised men and women still call their fathers Daddy (pronounced Deddy ... and I'm going to spell it how it's pronounced, so you'll be reading it the way I say it). I don't care how old I get, my father will always be Deddy to me.

My Deddy knows how to play, and he always has.

My brother and I used to imagine all sorts of scenarios, in which my parents were always good enough sports to take part in.

We made play restaurants, and they pretended to eat. We pretended we were motorcycle cops and left scribbled traffic tickets under the windshield wipers of their cars, and they pretended to pay them.

On our last trip to my parents' house, Deddy used the mowing attachment behind the tractor and mowed a road course into the field in front of the house. The field used to be planted in soybeans or milo every year, but now it's just tall grass.

When I was a little kid, Deddy took a 1960-something beetle and turned it into a dune buggy. That's what I learned to drive on. And that's what the road course was for. We took turns driving the dune buggy around the road course. Like I said, the man likes to play.

The day I turned 15, my Deddy took me to the DMV office to get my learner's permit. We left the office and went to one of my favorite hamburger joints. I don't remember why he wasn't working on a weekday, but I was so excited. Growing up where I grew up, you learn to drive before you're even halfway to the legal driving age. I wasn't at all worried about passing the tests; I was just excited about finally getting to drive legally. And Deddy knew how important that was to me. Important enough for him to take me to the DMV on the very day I could get my permit.

Deddy told me one time that the biggest accomplishment in his life is my brother and me. He always wanted me to have a husband and family, even when that's not at all what I wanted. He hasn't said "I told you so." And he better not!

But now that I have Biscuit, I understand what he means.

Here are a couple of pictures I like of my Deddy:

Papa and Biscuit take a ride on the lawnmower. Do you see where Deddy's hands are? Not the steering wheel!



















The building on the left is our treehouse. It's not in a tree, but it does have the bigger parts of cedar trees as the posts holding it up. The cool thing is that the treehouse has power, a carpeted floor and windows that open. We used to spend the night out there in the summer, where we would play our Atari video game way too late.


















My Deddy should be a spokesman for the Frisbee company. He thinks all outdoor events require a Frisbee. Beach? Frisbee. Picnic? Frisbee. Family reunion? Yep, a Frisbee.