As part of my new gig with Bohemia--the literary journal I am fortunate enough to staff on--I will be writing a weekly blog assignment here catered to our fans/friends/bohemian followers. The rest of the staff are poised to write, as well, so feel free to visit http://bohojo.wordpress.com/ to check out my fellow staffers in all their glory!
For me: sometimes I will write on certain topics and other times, I'll post some fiction I've been working on so keep checking back weekly for that! :)
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Of all the things I've done or will do this week, the one thing I couldn't do was be there for my dad. If you've followed my blog at all, you're aware of the Christmas trip spent in the ER. In dedication to my brave Edoda (<--Cherokee for "Father"!), I thought I'd take a minute to recount my favorite story EVER from our Greatest Hits album.
I grew up in the tiny border town of Arkoma, Oklahoma. For as far back as I can remember I played outside. I didn't even try my hand at video games until I was 13. And, when I was able to ride a bike and, coincidentally, got one for Christmas, I was G-O-N-E.
I rode along our slim, pot-holed streets usually heading for the nearby school where I would jump the multiple sets of stairs or to the back end of the neighborhood where hills were aplenty. The excitement of coasting at Mac 3 down a winding hill always trumped the strenuous climb back up (or the possibility of smashing into a car along a cross street).
On one particular day, Dad and I were home together (I have no recollection of where Mom and Sister were). While he toiled away in his shop in the garage, I took to riding circles in our long driveway. As any parent would do, he told me to stop because I could fall and get hurt. As any child would do, I let his warning go in one ear and out the other and continued on my flirtation with danger.
And, as life tends to do, Dad happened to be right. On my third turn around the wide path, a tiny rock hit my front tire in just the right spot. I flipped off the bike and scraped my knee (a scar I have to this day).
I cried. A lot.
I probably milked it, I'm sure. Maybe I thought he wouldn't say "I told you so" if I proved to have a real injury. Or, maybe I was just being a girl about it.
Either way, Dad swooped me up and ran me inside where I was placed on the kitchen counter while he looked for something to heal me or make me stop wailing. To my luck, he found the cure for both: after some slight first-aid to the wound, Good Old Dad walked me to the corner store, J-Sacs, where--if memory serves--I picked out an ice cream sandwich.
Band-aids and Ice-cream saved the day!
I've come to the realization that my favorite story really explains the epitome of my relationship with my father. However many times I've screwed up (disregarding his sage, Cherokee advice or not), he never says "I told you so".
He always tells me that "You'll be fine". And, he's usually right.
We've had our differences throughout the years; he's not the easiest man to know and--like him--I'm just as stubborn. But, my favorite day sits in August of 2000 when he said "I love you" to me for the first time. Shortly after he split with my mom, I was able to witness firsthand the emotions of a man who had never really let that side be shown before. And, even preparing for a biopsy two days ago, he told me twice to make sure I take care of "me".
I'm the luckiest.
*Kayla*
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