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When playtime was over my tiny hands tediously picked up Tyco toys, a fistful of three at a time. "Atta girl," my dad would encourage. This daunting task was heroically spared when his master hands lifted fifty in one easy scoop.

You may not know this, but we are English, and let that be known by the footsteps of a giant. Some mornings I would hear stomping up the stairs to my room and my dad's deliberately deep voice, "Fee fi fo fum... I smell the blood of an Englishman."

I longed to sleep in on Saturday mornings after a long week of school. "The day's almost half over!" my dad would exclaim at 8 am. "You're going to miss the sales!" Then he placed our cockatiel on my horizontal shoulder and said, "Here's your bird." The bird would continue to squawk until I got up. Ugh, thanks, Dad.

When our corded phone rang and he suspected a salesman he would ask us, "Do you want to buy a duck?"

Our white cat would roll into the fireplace ashes, and soon became known by my dad as "The Gray Snake."

Just add the word "gator" to the end of your name and you will get your nickname, if you are the offspring of my dad.

When someone had a birthday, he'd remember, not by a scribble on the calendar, but by a jot in his mind. Calendars were handy, however, for him to discover my mom's next hair appointment. He knew to compliment her when she returned. "Doesn't your mom's hair look nice?!" he'd affirm. This time she replied, "My appointment got cancelled."

He also made sure to compliment her cooking, "Look at this delicious meal your Ma did make," became his mantra. One time the words that followed were an apprehensive, "What is this...?"

Anytime my boyfriend would ring the doorbell my dad would announce my date's arrival by, "Your gentleman caller is here."

Computers were new to this 1990s dad from the 1940s. "How do you shut this thing off?" he would ask, time and time again.

Our tradition on Sunday after church was to pick out ice cream at the store. Mint chocolate chip was my "favorite." I don't know if I ever told him it wasn't.

"Do you have any socks you're getting rid of?" my dad would often ask me. He would request my "throw away" socks for his own personal use. He liked the natural airiness of the holes. In high school, by comparison, my sister and I used to borrow my dad's 1970s tank tops, "too cool for school." I continue to possess one of his tops, with a hint of his scent.

A human on earth 1938-2008
My dad 1982-forever
4-8-18
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