When I was Daddy's LIttle Girl

My favorite place as a young girl was the cab of my Dad’s pickup truck. During the week his hugs would smell of aftershave and freshly dry cleaned suits. On the weekends, his hugs smelled like the cab of his pick up – fresh air and the out of doors. We would often travel to the beach or a local lake on the weekends. I would bounce beside Dad on the bench seat my stubby legs propped up on the steel gray tool box set in the wheel well. Dad’s favorite green hunting hat hung from the gun rack with his favorite red flannel shirt. In that place I knew exactly who I was, Daddy’s little girl.

My earliest memories in the cab are of Dad singing old hymns. “There’s within my heart a melody. . .” his baritone voice bellowed. He was not a trained singer but to my young ears his was the most beautiful voice in the world. Those old hymns remain among my favorites; In the Garden, Just a Closer Walk with Thee, I Love to Tell the Story, and The Old Rugged Cross. I first learned about Jesus and his love for me listening to Dad sing.  No sanctuary could have been more sacred than that rattling old cab as we drove along the mountain roads singing together.

Later, the singing stopped but the music didn’t.Dad kept a large collection of cassette tapes organized in two tattered shoe boxes in the middle of the bench seat of the truck.These boxes were filled with Dad’s favorites: Tammy Wynette, Hank Williams, George Jones, Crystal Gayle.Sometimes Dad would allow me to pick out my favorites and I would sing along imagining I was performing on stage. “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” by Tammy Wynette and “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” by Crystal Gayle were two of my favorites. My own small voice dripped with all the emotion of a 10 year old who had never known heartache and drawled as much of southern accent as a northerner could. Dad never told me to be quiet or critiqued my delivery. He was my own personal audience in the grandest of concert halls.

As time passed my singing stopped and the concerts turned to discourses. Dad and I discussed many serious topics and a few trivial ones. Together we solved the cold war years before Reagan went to Moscow. My teenage mind struggled to wrap around theological quandaries and philosophical challenges. Dad shared his opinions and treated mine with great respect. I would listen to his memories of being a young man in the mountains of Oregon and I would share my big dreams for the future.In our private classroom, I learned to think and to dream.

Over 20 years have passed since I sat in the cab with Dad but I think of our many rides together as my own daughter sings in the backseat of my car. Her little voice climbs to the ceiling dreaming of a stage somewhere. Or my son shares his life and dreams with me as we drive down the turnpike. And hopefully they will remember those times in Mom’s car as fondly as do when I was Daddy’s little girl.

Happy Birthday Dad! From Daddy's Little Girl