Dad is Great.Bum Bum Bum. Riding Roller Skates. Bum Bum Bum!

My dad with Katie and I.

My dad with Katie and I.

The title of this post is the title and lyrics of an orginal song my that dad made up and taught the six of us to sing about him. I don’t remember when he made it up or why, but he is right. He is pretty great at riding roller skates.

“Its being to look a lot like aluminum.
A plastic Christmas tree.
Bumbum Bumbum Bum.

What a terrible, terrible way,
To spend the Christmas Day,
Around a stupid plastic tree.
Bumbum bumbum Bum.”

That one is how my mother got a fake Christmas tree the year after she and he divorced. He has always felt real trees are best, so much so that he actually got my little brother a gas mask to wear in the living room because he has a hard time breathing around real pine trees.

“If you wanna be a star,
Come and drink at my Tiki Bar.

If it wears a double D bra,
Its probably your mother in-law.


If you can’t run that far,
Just come back to my Tiki Bar.

We will drink a lot of beer,
And she’ll never get that near.

So come on over to my Tiki Bar,
And someday you’ll be a superstar!”

That one was about the Tiki Bar he, Katie and I built out of an old bowling alley floor and cedar shingles the summer I was 12. It is pretty legit. When we were evicted from our house my dad “acquired” a fork lift to transport it to the new place. We still drink beers there. And I’m a superstar.

There are at least half a dozen more of those dad-made-up songs the six of us can belt out at a moment’s notice. They each have a crazy story to go with them. These aren’t even the three best, just the three I am most comfortable putting on the internet.

I should have posted this earlier in honor of Father’s Day, but honestly this post is hard to write. My dad is the most complicated person I know. He is hilarious and scary and loyal and bossy and extremely intelligent and just a little bit excentric. I don’t have anyway to sum him up.

He drinks a lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon (only out of the can- bottles are for sissys) and smokes Winston cigarettes (from a soft pack).

The Pabst Beer Tree... the only fake Christmas tree excepted.

The Pabst Beer Tree… the only fake Christmas tree excepted.

People are weirdly drawn to him. I don’t know how he does it, but he can make anybody like him. After he makes someone like him, he has a way of making them want to please him. It really is a great trick.

We were evicted from the house that my dad built, that I grew up in, in 2007. My dad didn’t tell anyone what was going on until 3 days before the sheriff came to remove us. Some how in three days he got a house for us to live in (for free) and about 100 people to come help us pack up our life and move it two houses down the road.

My dad never spoke to me like a I was a child. Ever. He told the exact same perverted, offensive jokes he would tell his friends to his 10-year-old. He had very clear expectations of us, and we were very well aware of them. We never had any disillusions that he liked our friends or boyfriends or girlfriends. We always knew what he was thinking. Still do.
He has always treated the six of us like mini adults he was responsible for feeding and housing. He expected us to be able to fend for ourselves. We did all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the homework with each other. We did the Christmas and grocery shopping. He was more of an overseer.
It was an odd brand of parenting, but in the end he managed to create are six completely self confident, competent, reliable people.
The King of Wood Steet

The King of Wood Steet

Whenever any of us leave him we alway kiss him. If we forget, he reminds us. My grown brothers still kiss him on top of his head whenever they leave the house, even if it’s the tenth time that day.
He hardly ever actually says the words “I love you.” He really doesn’t need to, though. We all know that he does. He would do anything for the six of us. If I ever need anything- my car fixed or a dead body moved- he is my go to guy.
When I got married, my dad insisted that if he had to give me away, I had to hold his hand.  He used to yell at me when I was a little girl, "Hold my hand! Do you want me to fall!?"

When I got married, my dad insisted that if he had to give me away, I had to hold his hand.
He used to yell at me when I was a little girl, “Hold my hand! Do you want me to fall!?”