When I was growing up, I was Daddy’s little girl.
My dad bought me art supplies to encourage my desire to be an artist, long after I realized I’d better stick to writing instead of drawing. When I was in my teens, he suggested (and paid for) folk art painting lessons.
My dad sent me “care packages” while I was in Australia. He made sure I had a phone card so I could call home whenever I got homesick.
My dad taught me how to change a tire when I started driving, in case I ever got stuck on the side of the road with a flat.
My dad took me shopping to every furniture store in the city for a new desk when I was in university… and then, when I couldn’t find anything that I wanted, helped me build the desk of my dreams.
My dad was the best cook on the hiking trail, coming up with delicious meals on a single-burner camp stove to keep his little hikers well-fed and happy.
My dad woke up at 5 am to check on my pet ewe when she was lambing. He gave up Saturdays to buy hay to feed her in the winter and to shear her in the spring and to take her to meet a ram in the fall. He held me when I cried over the loss of one of my favourite lambs.
My dad took me to Mass when I started dating a Catholic, because he said I should know what I was getting myself into.
My dad read me books—Berenstain Bears, Bill Peet, Thornton W. Burgess, Bible stories, even Chronicles of Narnia.
My dad helped me get a job at his company during my first two summers of university. When people saw my name and commented that I must be his daughter, I was proud of that because I saw the respect they had for him.
So in honour of Father’s Day yesterday, I’d like to say
I’m still Daddy’s little girl at heart.