The Beautiful Kind

I love my dad the way some people love Jesus. He’s so fucking good, so honest, loves people and animals, and best of all, loves me for who I am.

Have you noticed that just as people think their own kids are so cute, they think their parents were so handsome or beautiful when they were younger? I’m the same way - I look at this pic of my parents taken in 1966, and see my dad as an Elvis rockabilly type. My mom looks like a blonde Shelly Duvall.

I call him “Daddy-O.” He proves his love for me by offering me a cocktail within 10 seconds of walking in the front door of his house without fail, even if it’s 10am. He makes the best margaritas.

When I was a little girl, he was the one who took care of me whenever I was sick. He’d put a spell on me every night to ensure good dreams.

He has over 100 antique radios littering his house, stacked in clumps throughout. He has a thing for convertibles, new age music, electronic gadgets and Mexican food.

He’s one of the Helpers of the world. He says something nice to every person he meets, and can get along with anyone.

One time he found an envelope stuffed with cash in a hotel bathroom, and he turned it right in to the front desk without a second thought. That made a huge impression on me.

When a guest leaves his house, he always gets up and walks them to the front door. To me, that gesture is as sweet and old-fashioned as a man offering you his cloth hankerchief.

And speaking of hankies, when I’m feeling bad, all I have to do is give him a call and just hearing his voice can prompt me to cry and get it out of my system.