My family has Dad legends.
Oh, the stories we have. To this day, I don’t parallel park. And my in-laws wear wide-eyed looks of shock when our families get together.
I don’t know if I can do the stories justice, and I know I can’t pick my favorite one. So I’ll share one every once in awhile and call them Pats.
Today I’ll share the Flying Pat, not to be confused with the Flying Dutchman.
My younger brother tried every trick and adventure known to rural Iowa youths in the seventies. Occasionally, he crossed a line, and my dad, like most of the dads in that generation, responded (you know, the ones who could freeze a child’s blood with “the look.”)
The rule infraction has been forgotten but the Flying Pat lives on in legend. The brother got busted, received the look and froze but somehow got his eyes free and made a heroic escape attempt.
He scrambled up and over a five foot stock gate and hit the ground running.
Dad, in six-million dollar man style, took off after him. It was beautiful to watch. Olympic style scoring would have been 9.9’s across the board even from ‘doesn’t play well with others’ countries. He soared into the blue and leapt over the fence. And landed on my brother.
Wishing you a free flying, soft landing kind of day.
Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.