My father and I had a difficult relationship as I grew up, the only daughter in a family of five boys, being raised by a man who had no sisters growing up. I don't think he really understood me.
It took me a lot of years to figure out that being a girl was okay, thanks to a lot of friends who helped me along the way.
Despite our difficulties, I do have some good memories of my dad, more of which have surfaced over the years.
I remember the farting cat. For some reason, our Siamese cat Betsue started farting one day, and her farts sounded like limburger cheese. My dad couldn't stop laughing.
He and I went to see Star Wars together...all of the first three episodes. I remember the lines around the block with the first movie. I identified with Luke's father issues really hard, but going with my dad was a great experience.
He used to keep a notebook full of pictures of things he wanted, and places he wanted to go, and what he wanted his house to look like. I used to love looking through it, and some of the things he wanted in that book became things I wanted. Especially the sheepskin run. We used to look at that together, and he would tell me how soft and luxurious it felt. When I grew up, we did get a sheepskin run, and I kept it for years.
We would watch Star Trek together at home, and argue over storylines and characters and costumes. He introduced me to nerd culture, and it's shaped my entire life.
When personal computers became available, he tried to teach me how to program computers, but I was more interested in boys by then...it was a lost opportunity that I'm still trying to catch up on now.
When I was twelve, we went to a dress-up dinner at church. We both dressed as hobos. I had a good time.
When I was fourteen, we went on an overnight campout for daddies and daughters. We ate pancakes, and I saw a deer.
After I played the Stage Manager in our school's production of Our Town, my mom and dad came up to me after the play, and my dad said that I did a really good job. That little bit of praise really meant a lot.
When I was eighteen, and moving to New York City to become an actress, my father had spent the last several weeks telling me how disappointed he was that I wasn't going to Utah to go to college, and how he was disowning me (we didn't really have anything to own, so this didn't bother me so much). As I finally packed myself (barely) into the stuffed little car my mom and my friend Toni were driving to New York, he came out at the last minute and said goodbye. He slipped me a $20 bill, and as we drove away, I looked back to see tears streaming down his face. I'd never seen him cry before.
Over the next several years, as I worked hard at becoming independent and failed many times, he always let me come back home to recover. He saved my life at those times, and I never forgot that.
He's very private, and we still don't talk very much. We tend to bond more over technology and movies than feelings. But I know he loves me in the best way he can, and I'm glad he's my dad.
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