Why my dad is the coolest dad ever.

With Father's Day coming up, and since I kvetch, er, talk about my mom so much in here, I thought I'd tell you why my dad is the coolest dad ever.

He used to drive me to and from flute lessons in Oakland, CA, wicked early (that's right, wicked), every Saturday morning. He would put his CB (children of the 70s, you'll know what I'm talking about) in the car, and we would talk to each other and to big rig truckers all over the place. My handle was "SuperZiggy" (imagine!) and Dad's was "Big Bear." We used to have the best conversations on those drives. I used to call him my buddy.

He and I were in the Indian Princesses program through the YMCA (ok, it wasn't the most PC thing in the world, but it meant well at the time). It was so cool- it was a father/daughter organization, and we had our own "tribe." We were the Blackfoot tribe, and we'd meet once a month at a different father/daughter house to work on art/nature projects and learn about Native American culture, and especially that of our tribe. And then we'd eat those pink and white frosted circus animal cookies with the round sprinkles, and drink juice. Sometimes we'd go camping. We would sing "On Top of Spaghetti" until our lungs hurt. Once we caught a whole bunch of frogs and tried to smuggle them home in dixie cups. 15 minutes into the ride home, the dads found out and pulled over next to a lake so we could release them (well, the ones we could find). Poor Lisa's dad was picking dead frogs out of their station wagon for years. We went to real pow-wows and performed skits. I was always the start of a little play called, "I Threw Peanuts in the Mud Puddle." The punchline was that I was a kid... named "Peanuts."

My dad built me a doll house. I "helped," but let's be honest. I bitched and whined and wondered when I could go watch TV. What a dorky kid- I would spank myself if I could. Or at the very least send myself to my room with no dessert. I don't know if my dad knows how much I appreciated that doll house. And how much I ache with regret when I think about how I let it fall apart. Even now, at 35, my throat closes to think about it.

We built or made lots of things. Our first project was a red bird house when I was about 2. I thought it was really cool that the shiny little can of red paint bounced a little when you threw it down on the linoleum at Gemco. Imagine my amazement when it didn't bounce, but instead opened and splashed everywhere. I have a picture of the bath that came after that one- oy. We made model cars, a crystal radio, and landscaping for those cool electric trains that weren't quite mine. We polished rocks and always thought they were way too cool to put in the crappy vermeil jewelry settings the rock polisher came with. I helped him (and mom) put in the cement borders in our backyard (he even let me write my name in the cement!!), and we had a vegetable garden every year- everything from beans to corn to tons of tomatoes and zucchini.

My poor dad struggled like crazy to teach me math. The man is an electrical engineer and was given a daughter who still occasionally counts on her fingers. I don't know where he found the patience. I wanted so badly to be good at it for him. He always helped me with school work. Even while yelling at me, like the time I left a muy grande Spanish project until the last night of Winter vacation. The damn thing needed a 3-d cover, and I didn't have a clue what to do. Off dad went to the store. He came back with a bag of Skittles and some cotton. I made a map of whichever South American country I hurriedly had done the report on, and he and mom helped me (while admonishing me with wilting glares) glue on different colored Skittles for different exports. The cotton stood in for textiles. My dad taught me lots of stuff without actually sitting down and teaching me, too. Through his day to day actions I learned: ethics, morals, supportiveness, kindness, compassion, humor, work ethic, and generosity. Then there was the practical stuff like, how to drive a car, ride a bike, use tools, mow a lawn, balance my checkbook... ok, so I didn't pay enough attention to that last one.

Several years ago, my dad was travelling back and forth to Switzerland for work. We had a blast e-mailing each other, keeping each other company (Mr. ZigKvetch was often on tour) and cracking each other up. I have all the e-mails saved (I don't think he knows this), and want to put them together in a book for us someday.

In junior high, I got it into my head one February 13th, that I simply *HAD* to have a bunch of jaw breakers for each of my Valentine friends. And then my OCD kicked in and I started having a meltdown-- what if someone gave me a Valentine, and I didn't have something for them?! I'd need extra! And if I give one to all these people, I'm going to have to give one to so-and-so too or they'll feel left out. I cried out of sheer panic (I swear this wasn't a spoiled brat thing-- I was/am such a freakazoid). The man bought $30 worth of watermelon jaw breakers and helped me wrap each one in a little baggie with ribbon. He also let me cry on his shoulder when no one gave me a darned thing the next day. (Ok, that was a spoiled brat thing, but I was young and foolish.) This guy deserves some kind of award. A major award, even.

Dad was the one who accompanied me to NYC to audition for music schools. He was the lucky one who got to catch me when I burst into angry tears after the sham of an audition they put me through at one of the schools. He was also the one to take me out to dinner and then a concert at the 92nd Street Y that night so I could see a friend who was already attending that very school. On the plane coming home, I made my dad a friendship bracelet (huge in the mid-late 80s). I think he still carries it in his wallet.

If I may brag a little, I have to say that I take after him in a lot of ways. We both love Chinese food and could eat it everyday for every meal, without balking. We'll both try anything, food-wise. (Pigs feet? Check. Tripe? Check. Strange looking fungus thing we found at an Asian market? Check.) We both yell at stupid drivers inside our cars, although we know not to act on anything. We're both expert soup makers. Soup whisperers, if you will. We tend to walk the same way, and I notice that the older I get, the more I watch my temper suddenly flare up when I see an injustice. The nut doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess, but, I also have his compassion and his goofy sense of humor.

I could go on and on, but alas, I have to leave to go teach.

Let me just end by saying that my dad has always been bigger than life to me. Tall, broad shouldered, large build, deep laugh, twinkles in both eyes, strong like an ox, and the man knows at least a little something about everything in the universe. Health issues are inevitable the older you get, but no matter, my dad is exactly the same Daddy (actually I used to call him "Datty") on the inside as he always has been. Mushy? Yeah, I know. But it's my dad! And he's the coolest ever.