This Friday the 13th would have marked my father’s 69th birthday. Nine years ago on November 23, 2000, at 60 years of age and on Thanksgiving, he let go of his fight with cancer and died surrounded by loved ones.
He was an amazing man. A bit of a controlling ass sometimes, but a loving, supportive father all the same. As a child he was the man who brought home the bacon and let me ride on his back as we dove to the deep end of the pool to touch the drain. As a teen he let me choose my own clothes, my own hairstyle, and gave me the taste of independence (yet always knowing what line NOT to cross). As an older teen verging on legal adulthood, we butted heads but we also had our memorable dinner nights and he threw the coolest parties. We were quite the pair — this father/daughter duo.
All my friends loved him. All of my girlfriends had mini-crushes on him. All my boyfriends were intimidated by the 6’3″ father offering them a beverage.
This is a lucky day. Always has been. My father, whose voice could melt butter, as well as, bring on the command, said his best birthday was when he turned 13 on Friday the 13th. Ever since, I look forward to that calendary phenomenon.
I love you and miss you very much, Dad. May the Cadillac margaritas be plentiful where you are celebrating.
Your Twinkle Toes