One of my FB friends, Joy Baggett Bolick , wrote a sweet post about her father that got me thinking about my own precious daddy.

My dad's public persona was always dapper and immaculately turned out. Perfectly tailored suits from a gentleman he'd known at Rosenblum's for years, and Florsheims polished to a brilliance you could see yourself in. I remember looking at the back of his head on Sunday mornings, sitting in the front row of Southside Baptist Church with all the other deacons, thinking how handsome he was, and that he'd be perfect if only he had more hair. Because it must be said, his head was as shiny as his shoes.

I got a lot of chances to see the top of that head. At parades, at the beach, in the lake, always riding on his shoulders, gripping the top of his head while he held me by my knees, making sure I stayed perched up there, out of harm's way. Anywhere he took his precious only child that he thought might offer the slightest hazard would find me riding on his shoulders, keeping me safe. I was his miracle chance at fatherhood at the age of 44. He never stopped telling me the story about the first time he and my mother saw me in the hospital, after a stranger gave birth to me and left me behind as she got on with her life. My adoption was a miracle for both of them, but also the path for him to be a superhero for the next 37 years.

I spent most of my childhood looking at his head. Bent over the piles of work he brought home, studying for insurance exams as he tried for yet another promotion at the job he worked for over 40 years. On his hands and knees in his garden. Poring over the Wall Street Journal, keeping up with his stocks. And always, always, always bowed in prayer.

On one occasion, I was in the car with Daddy and Mother. We were all dressed up, and I think we may have been going to a funeral. Or a wedding. Maybe somewhere as simple as a Sunday church service. I just remember itchy ruffles and frilly socks, and my mother's plea to stay clean, just this once. But before we got wherever we were going, my dad spotted a young woman stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire. Despite my mother's entreaties that we would be late if he stopped, he nosed our Pontiac off to the side and turned on the blinkers. I never knew him to pass by a stranded motorist, in spite of the fact that his mechanical skills were not of the highest order. That day, as he knelt in the gravel changing that flat, he tore the knee of his suit pants.

Later that afternoon, I watched him put those trousers into a bag to take to his tailor the next morning to see if they could be salvaged. I asked him why he always stopped. He looked at me, and patted me on the head. I'll never forget what he said. "Honey, that could be you in a few short years. That young lady is some other daddy's little girl. The world can be a scary place, and I can be the one to keep somebody else's little girl safe."

I was a sore and heartbreaking challenge to my dad on so many occasions. The summer I ran away and was gone for months, with him not knowing whether his little girl was alive or dead, only that he wasn't with her to keep her safe. All the nights in my older teens when I was late getting home, and he'd drive the route I should have been on, looking for me. The hours he stayed by my bed while I was pregnant, and risking my life to finally become a parent myself. He'd sit there with his newspaper, working a crossword puzzle, waiting for me to finish cooking what he knew would be his only grandchild. While Mother did the much-needed work of running my household in addition to her own, Daddy did the harder work of just sitting there, watching his little girl, knowing he couldn't fix things for her, not this time. simple beach wedding dresses

On February 12th, Daddy will have been gone 17 years. I still miss him, sharply at times, sweetly at others, but always. Always. I'll miss him until I take my last breath. He was my first hero, my spiritual advisor, my nagger, my fixer. My Daddy.