Hopefully it's Better than Cake

Dear Daddio,

Since today is your birthday, and I can't be there to celebrate with you, instead I'm treating you to a slow walk through memory lane. It'd be a jog, but with our bad knees, we'd both be hurting. A walk will do.

• My earliest memory of music is you playing the Eagles album in our old house—the one with the brown paperboard cover that had the name of the band embossed on it. I recall sitting there rubbing the letters while you sang the words out loud. I don't recall any dance moves, and given your "hands above the shoulders" style at weddings of late, that may be for the best.


• Your musical tastes today often are the subject of fodder for us now—I am pretty sure you are the only person who loves Jon Secada, Rick Astley, Pilot of the Airwaves, and that obnoxious Six Flags commercial song. You redeem yourself slightly with your steadfast appreciation of good acapella tunes, and any rendition of Amazing Grace that iTunes has to offer.


• Ever since I can remember, you have opened Christmas presents with the glee usually reserved for small children, and the biggest, floppiest bow usually ends up stuck to your head. I wouldn't trade that for anything.


• Summers meant airshows, and I can thank you for my love of the fighter planes zooming overhead every August at the Chicago Air & Water Show. The sound alone makes me smile, and recall hot Atlanta summers standing in the middle of a field staring straight up. My skinny legs always itched from the tall grasses, we inevitably got cricks in our neck from the frozen posture, and my shoulders grew increasingly more freckled over the years, but the time spent with you was undoubtedly worth it.


• Playing sports was our way to make up for you not having a son, and we loved being out there on the court/field/pool to represent your love of the game. Hearing you call out "Come on, Tiger!" was enough to make me forget the lousy shot I'd just taken, and hustle my way back into the action. If only I'd been as good at any of those sports as another famed "Tiger," I may have been able to give you a bigger gift this year.


• Road trips, typically to St. Louis, were long and arduous, but you always knew how to earn some giggles. With your extra long arms (yet another trait I inherited), you'd reach back and grab our ankles from the driver's seat, causing us to erupt and shriek, making the stretch across the Chattanooga mountains more interesting.


• You remain the only grown adult I've known to consistently order a glass of milk with your dinner at a restaurant. The look on the waiter's face is often worth more than the tip.


• The smell of Home Depot will forever remind me of those Saturdays when Mom gave you a "honey do" list and you decided to drag us along, letting us ride the big orange flat carts, while you shopped. Who knew sawdust and plywood could be so much fun?


• As with your car building obsession now, I was always the only girl I knew who could wander down to "Dad's shop" and find model airplanes stretched across the basement, made of balsa wood and super glue, featuring two Barbie pilots—one blonde and one brunette—proving once again that you liked having your girls along while you explored your hobbies. I finally have recovered from the time that you admitted you had to chop off Barbie's legs to get her to fit in the cockpit.


• In addition to car building, your devotion to X-Files, Star Trek, Grease and Speedvision ensures that you are a unique individual. With control of the remote.


• Getting emails from you now guarantees a laugh as you explore the hilarious world of text lingo. OMG, I'm not sure who in your office taught you, but I'm guessing their daughter is 14. LOL.

Since I'm not there, I can't run in the room and give you a giant bear hug, only to curl up later and sit as your "lap dog" despite the fact that I'm way too old for it and the club chair creaks under our combined weight. I can't help you grill the burgers with the screen door standing open, doing anything I can to evoke your Woody Woodpecker laugh. I can't fight over the last piece of chocolate cake, only to succumb because it's your birthday, and you're bigger than I am. I can't share in your latest achievements on the hot rod, and tease you for your Einstein-wacky eyebrows. I do, however, know that you're proud of your girls, and your encouragement means so much to me, even across the miles.

Happy Birthday, Daddio!

Much love, ("You heart me?!?")

Colleener Machiner