There are three memories that sit in the back of my mind, clear as day. They aren't from big family vacations or birthday parties. They are just everyday occurrences that have stuck with me for some reason or another.
The first. It was a summer afternoon, I was probably seven or so. I was playing outside with my brothers, or maybe inside drawing (one of my favorite pastimes as a kid). My dad came up to me and asked me if I wanted to ride with him to the gas station to get some snacks. I eagerly said yes, and before I ran off to get my shoes, he said "Don't tell your brothers. It'll just be you and me." I LOVED this, because that meant I got to sit in the front seat instead of The Hump. He drove an old, white two-seater truck at the time, and every time one of my brothers tagged along, I had to sit on the middle console, aka The Hump (highly illegal, but it led to some funny moments). I grabbed my shoes and we snuck out the door.
We drove to the Chevron station on Ennis Ave. with the windows down, music up. I remember that he would always tap a drummer's beat on the steering wheel as he drove, and I began to do the same on the dash. That particular day, I drummed just loud enough for him to hear, and he looked over at me and said, "Hey, that's pretty good!" I blushed and stopped momentarily. I was too shy for my own good as a child, even with my own family members. We arrived at the gas station and picked up sodas and chips. I don't remember if he ever put gas in the truck.
We drove back home the same as we came, windows down, sound waves of classic rock disappearing into the wind. "Just me and my girl," he said at one point. It was my favorite day.
Now, to the second. I was a bit younger, maybe 5? 6? I was small enough to be carried, which had to have been pretty young, considering I reached my adult height by the time I was in sixth grade. It was in our old two-story house in Ennis. I shared a room with my twin brother. We had bunk beds, and I was on the bottom (which is terrifying now that I think about it). In the mornings before school, my dad would gently shake me and my brother awake and pluck me out of a cocoon of blankets. He would carry me down the stairs, my curly hair flying every which way, my hands clasped around the back of his neck. He would tell me how warm I felt every time. Such a small memory, but it reminds me of his tenderness, which is so very special to me.
Lastly, his whistle. Every day when my dad would come home from work, he would walk through the front door and whistle three times. I can still hear it. My brothers and I would be laying on the couch in the summer, sunburned and exhausted from a day a Sokol pool, and we would hear the screen to the front door open. Then came the whistles: "weeeeuuuu, weeeeuuu, weeeeuuuu!" If we had the energy, we would rush to meet him, our dogs running at our feet. He'd welcome us with open arms. I can't remember the exact sound of his voice, but I will always remember that whistle.
That's just the way he was.
-Becca
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