A girl, a dad, and a Mustang

Today is my dad's 63rd birthday. Growing up, it was tradition to give him Keebler's fudge graham cookies, a case of apple beer or ginger ale, a package of combs, or some socks. I don't know exactly why each of those things were included, but he always acted so surprised as if they were the best presents ever.

In return, of course, my dad gave each of us so much more. I remember daddy/daughter dates waaaay back to the time when I had to take four or five steps to every one of his as we made our way across the parking lot at the hardware store (no Home Depot or Lowe's in those days). We'd finish off the afternoon with a trip to Baskin Robbin's, and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive.

As I got older, the dates became more sophisticated. My dad took me to see 'Singin' in the Rain' on Broadway in New York City. Just the two of us. I remember him stopping on a certain street corner and making me pay close attention the street names, telling me that if anything at all happened to separate us, this particular corner was where I was supposed to meet him. I remember my dad chuckling as I gripped his hand even tighter at the idea of getting lost in such a big city.

My dad always made me feel special. And he always showed us how much my mom meant to him. In my parent's house, there is a small plaque which reads, "The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." My dad takes that to heart. On my last trip home, I saw little post it notes all around their home. One in the kitchen said, "Reason 242. I love the way you read until you fall asleep." These are little random love notes my dad has left for my mom in various spots of their house. Each time I saw one, it made me smile. And it made me think of that little plaque.

I always knew our family was a priority in my dad's life. During my junior year of high school, I had a singular experience that I will never forget.

It was Homecoming spirit week, and for whatever reason, my car was out of commission. Being the man that he is, my dad offered to let me drive his car for the week. His car was a 1966 Mustang, beautifully restored by him. Classic Mustangs have a serial number indicating their original color, interior, etc., Mustang enthusiasts like my dad can research this number and restore the car to its original glory.

A 1966 Springtime yellow Mustang convertible just like my dad's

My dad loo-oved this car. He had spent several years working on it during his spare time. Letting me drive it for the single-most significant week of the year was a pretty big deal. It also turned out to be a pretty big mistake.

The crisp fall weather was perfect for putting the top down. I thought I was so cool. The first mishap was backing into a school bus while parking at a school soccer game. Remember, this is a convertible. And I hit a BUS. Damage was minimal, but damage nonetheless.

Next came a speeding ticket (I think). Then scraping the front bumper on the garage wall. Then a flat tire. Are you kidding? All in one week. And my dad still let me drive the car. And I still thought I was super cool.

The final pivotal moment was after the Powder Puff football game. I had arrived late (not me!!) and was parked at the end of a row, illegally. But it's a high school parking lot--who really parks in the lines, anyway? When the game was over and I returned to the car with my friends, my heart dropped to my stomach.

Someone across the aisle had backed into my dad's car, crunching the back end above the wheel well. His once pristine Mustang was clearly damaged. I was heart-broken. I had been completely at fault with the other incidents, and I was at fault with this one too because I had parked illegally. And of course whoever hit it drove off, so there was no recourse.

That evening, I was in my room writing in my journal. I was so sad. The week had started triumphantly with me driving my dad's awesome car and enjoying every minute. Little by little and piece by piece--mostly through my carelessness--it had all fallen apart. As I was thinking of all of this, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

My dad came in and asked how I was doing. And I told him. I was miserable. I was sorry. I was disappointed in myself. I was crying. I knew how much his car meant to him and how much he trusted me to drive it that week, and I knew I had totally let him down.

My dad listened thoughtfully, and then turned it around. He told me that the car was only a car, and cars come and go. I, however, was his daughter. I was his forever. I mattered to him, not the car. He promised me it would all work out, it would be okay. I cried some more, thanked him, we hugged, and said good night.

Talk about a life lesson. My dad's car still has those scars--it has never been fixed. But, thanks to my dad's wisdom and love, I don't have any scars from that perfect-turned-pathetic week of my life. I am restored as his Mustang was--well and whole. I learned the importance of people, not things. And the value of forgiveness.

Happy Birthday, Dad! Thank you for the memories & magic, the love & laughter, and for your example of what it means to cherish a child.

And, uh, next time I'm in town--do you think I could borrow your BMW? (BAAAAAAH! Hahahahahaha!)