every time we go out for ice cream
my dad gets one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of vanilla, and i get mint chocolate chip.
he can never find his wallet, and i can never find my car keys.
neither of us ever knows what day it is.
we both leave cabinet doors open, and my mom says we put our pants on the same way. our shoes wear thin in the same areas.
we have the same ridiculously long legs and short torsos. getting out of small cars feels more like unfolding than standing up, and our knees crack and our hips turn out the same way. sitting at booths in restaurants makes us look like we're sitting in holes.
our heels are too narrow for our shoes, and we have long toes and fingers, and the same weird crook in our right eyebrows. we rest our hands on our faces the same way, put our hands on our hips for pictures, and walk with our hands in our pockets, too.
we both clear our throats and dislike pickles. we make the same spelling errors. we have the same sense of humor.
we both love history, and to talk about ancient history and politics and battles and kings and queens and science and rockets and engineering and astronomy. when i was a kid, he taught me how to figure out the pool chemistry and clean out the skimmer, backwater and how to operate the pump and heater. and how to play ping pong and chess.
i named my first cat after his cat.
he taught my how to build and fly model airplanes, and how flight works. he taught me how to ride a bike and that it's not polite to point at other people. he tried to get me to take smaller bites of food, but i'm still working on it.
he taught me where condensation and steam come from, and what inertia is. he taught me to say please and thank you often, and not to leave my spoon in my coffee cup or make a loud clanging sound when i stir it.
he taught me that you have to take a little bit of whatever the hostess is serving so as not to hurt her feelings, and that manners are exceedingly important.
he pulls out my chair every time we eat together and helps me on and off with my coat and opens doors and carries things, and stands up when i--or any woman--walks into a room. he's sitting and i'm standing, he insists that i sit, and that i have the last of whatever food is around, even if he's still hungry.
he used to travel a lot for business and he always said, "breakfast in san francisco, lunch in new york; baggage in south africa." he smelled of airplanes and cigarette smoke and i'd always stay up late and bake him a cake when he came home.
gingerbread is his favorite. he won't eat stewed tomatoes because he ate so many during the great depression. he taught me how to find the big and little dippers in the sky. we both would have liked to have majored in english.
my mom says when we get sick, our eyes get the same glazed look. we both read in the restroom (sorry). we both frown when we read or concentrate, and we both talk to ourselves.
he says he can see the smoke coming out of my ears when i'm thinking, and i know what he means when i look at him. we cry at the same moments in movies. we oversleep on the weekends, and sleep with pillows over our heads.
he laughs so hard at Marx Brothers movies that he cries.
he remembers his army serial number better than his social security number. he says he got drafted for korea because some guy on the draft board's son was killed in War II and he was bitter my dad didn't have to go.
he taught me how to make a martini when i was kid. he showed me where he went to high school in philadelphia and skipped up the steps the same way he remembered. he says when he was a boy, a soft pretzel cost one penny and mustard with it cost another.
he remembers when the coal guy would come and dump coal into the basement, and the guy who lit the gas lanterns on the street came. he remembers when pearl harbor was bombed. he remembers polio and life before penicillin and fluoride.
we used to go skipping together and ride bikes and go for walks around the block on long summer evenings. he bought me model trains and taught me how they work. i still have all of them and my mom had better not get rid of them, as well as all our old books that mean a lot to me.
my cousins and i used to put our parakeets in the cars of the train and zoom them around the tracks. it was bad. our cat would stalk the train and pounce on it and derail it. the trains were always up at christmas, and they'd go around the tree and then around the fireplace. we had ceramic light-up houses and fake snow under the tree. it was a big deal. christmas was always magical for me.
we both have an affinity for language, and our writing style is similar. he gets frustrated with bureaucracy and small-mindedness the same way i do.
he taught me how to light a fire in the fireplace and how to skip stones across a river. he taught me that character is more important than intelligence, and that in our lives, we only ever have a very few close friends. i went to his best friend wayne's funeral and it was hard. he spoke very eloquently.
everyone loves my dad. my mom and i threw him a surprise birthday party and everyone said how much they liked him and shared stories from his past, especially from lockheed. he likes dixieland jazz.
his fraternity brothers and fellow students from penn express such admiration for him. they say i'm so lucky to be his daughter, and i am. he was an only child, and so am i. we both grew up quickly and feared our mothers. we learned to read early.
i wish he would write his memoirs, but he doesn't. he was drafted into the army during korea, and worked at redstone aresenal with werner von braun, some german guy who was a famous scientist. he shook hands with a guy who shook hands with abraham lincoln, he says.
he saw the glenn miller orchestra live. he dated grace kelly's sister. we both think german sounds funny and laugh at it.
he flew his own plane for years and he and my mom have been all over the country and baja mexico. he wishes he could have a plane again; aviation is one of his biggest passions.
he's read the wall street journal every day since he was about 10 or 12. he's checked stock prices every day too, but i guess a lot of people do that.
it's funny how once i feel the bad stuff, it unlocks the good stuff.
yesterday, my dad taught me that in latin, "catholic" means universal church, and that in greek, "episcopalian" means universal church. he believes in the religion of mythraism, which is a forerunner to christianity.
i believe that kids who come from tough homes often idealize things to compensate. i have and i do. something to work on.
my dad always walks closer to the cars on the sidewalk in case something happened to me. he likes going to church for christmas and easter and he likes to sing. he remembers lots of poems from heart, and when i took "physics for poets" he would come and recite along with the teacher.
today we talked about ballistic missiles, and how hard it is to build one that can launch from a submarine and break the surface, go above the atmosphere and then hit its target. i have much more respect for engineers because of him.
he can never find his wallet, and i can never find my car keys.
neither of us ever knows what day it is.
we both leave cabinet doors open, and my mom says we put our pants on the same way. our shoes wear thin in the same areas.
we have the same ridiculously long legs and short torsos. getting out of small cars feels more like unfolding than standing up, and our knees crack and our hips turn out the same way. sitting at booths in restaurants makes us look like we're sitting in holes.
our heels are too narrow for our shoes, and we have long toes and fingers, and the same weird crook in our right eyebrows. we rest our hands on our faces the same way, put our hands on our hips for pictures, and walk with our hands in our pockets, too.
we both clear our throats and dislike pickles. we make the same spelling errors. we have the same sense of humor.
we both love history, and to talk about ancient history and politics and battles and kings and queens and science and rockets and engineering and astronomy. when i was a kid, he taught me how to figure out the pool chemistry and clean out the skimmer, backwater and how to operate the pump and heater. and how to play ping pong and chess.
i named my first cat after his cat.
he taught my how to build and fly model airplanes, and how flight works. he taught me how to ride a bike and that it's not polite to point at other people. he tried to get me to take smaller bites of food, but i'm still working on it.
he taught me where condensation and steam come from, and what inertia is. he taught me to say please and thank you often, and not to leave my spoon in my coffee cup or make a loud clanging sound when i stir it.
he taught me that you have to take a little bit of whatever the hostess is serving so as not to hurt her feelings, and that manners are exceedingly important.
he pulls out my chair every time we eat together and helps me on and off with my coat and opens doors and carries things, and stands up when i--or any woman--walks into a room. he's sitting and i'm standing, he insists that i sit, and that i have the last of whatever food is around, even if he's still hungry.
he used to travel a lot for business and he always said, "breakfast in san francisco, lunch in new york; baggage in south africa." he smelled of airplanes and cigarette smoke and i'd always stay up late and bake him a cake when he came home.
gingerbread is his favorite. he won't eat stewed tomatoes because he ate so many during the great depression. he taught me how to find the big and little dippers in the sky. we both would have liked to have majored in english.
my mom says when we get sick, our eyes get the same glazed look. we both read in the restroom (sorry). we both frown when we read or concentrate, and we both talk to ourselves.
he says he can see the smoke coming out of my ears when i'm thinking, and i know what he means when i look at him. we cry at the same moments in movies. we oversleep on the weekends, and sleep with pillows over our heads.
he laughs so hard at Marx Brothers movies that he cries.
he remembers his army serial number better than his social security number. he says he got drafted for korea because some guy on the draft board's son was killed in War II and he was bitter my dad didn't have to go.
he taught me how to make a martini when i was kid. he showed me where he went to high school in philadelphia and skipped up the steps the same way he remembered. he says when he was a boy, a soft pretzel cost one penny and mustard with it cost another.
he remembers when the coal guy would come and dump coal into the basement, and the guy who lit the gas lanterns on the street came. he remembers when pearl harbor was bombed. he remembers polio and life before penicillin and fluoride.
we used to go skipping together and ride bikes and go for walks around the block on long summer evenings. he bought me model trains and taught me how they work. i still have all of them and my mom had better not get rid of them, as well as all our old books that mean a lot to me.
my cousins and i used to put our parakeets in the cars of the train and zoom them around the tracks. it was bad. our cat would stalk the train and pounce on it and derail it. the trains were always up at christmas, and they'd go around the tree and then around the fireplace. we had ceramic light-up houses and fake snow under the tree. it was a big deal. christmas was always magical for me.
we both have an affinity for language, and our writing style is similar. he gets frustrated with bureaucracy and small-mindedness the same way i do.
he taught me how to light a fire in the fireplace and how to skip stones across a river. he taught me that character is more important than intelligence, and that in our lives, we only ever have a very few close friends. i went to his best friend wayne's funeral and it was hard. he spoke very eloquently.
everyone loves my dad. my mom and i threw him a surprise birthday party and everyone said how much they liked him and shared stories from his past, especially from lockheed. he likes dixieland jazz.
his fraternity brothers and fellow students from penn express such admiration for him. they say i'm so lucky to be his daughter, and i am. he was an only child, and so am i. we both grew up quickly and feared our mothers. we learned to read early.
i wish he would write his memoirs, but he doesn't. he was drafted into the army during korea, and worked at redstone aresenal with werner von braun, some german guy who was a famous scientist. he shook hands with a guy who shook hands with abraham lincoln, he says.
he saw the glenn miller orchestra live. he dated grace kelly's sister. we both think german sounds funny and laugh at it.
he flew his own plane for years and he and my mom have been all over the country and baja mexico. he wishes he could have a plane again; aviation is one of his biggest passions.
he's read the wall street journal every day since he was about 10 or 12. he's checked stock prices every day too, but i guess a lot of people do that.
it's funny how once i feel the bad stuff, it unlocks the good stuff.
yesterday, my dad taught me that in latin, "catholic" means universal church, and that in greek, "episcopalian" means universal church. he believes in the religion of mythraism, which is a forerunner to christianity.
i believe that kids who come from tough homes often idealize things to compensate. i have and i do. something to work on.
my dad always walks closer to the cars on the sidewalk in case something happened to me. he likes going to church for christmas and easter and he likes to sing. he remembers lots of poems from heart, and when i took "physics for poets" he would come and recite along with the teacher.
today we talked about ballistic missiles, and how hard it is to build one that can launch from a submarine and break the surface, go above the atmosphere and then hit its target. i have much more respect for engineers because of him.
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