I have been thinking about my Dad lately, too. Mainly because he hasn't called me back in 24 hours. He is kind of a phone stalker. It is one of the things I love most about him. He is kind of crazy. Like me. It must be where I get it.
Today I was talking to myself in rhyme. This is something I get from my Dad. Some of my earliest memories are of my father, a six foot tall, orange-haired rotund mass of a man dancing around in his underwear, doing the white man point and shuffle, while he rhymed about some mundane happenings of the morning.
"You are my friend, you are my pal.
Get your butt out of bed, be a good gal!"
It wasn't exactly poetry but it was enough to make it memorable.
These days my dad's eyes are a lot heavier than they use to be. It seems that the realities of time and obligation and economy have weighed down his step.
I worry about him a lot. He has always been my hero.
And as I sit in the Burger King parking lot, cursing in rhyme, about the confused young woman with the gold tooth, pink dreads and nose ring that has somehow confused my veggie burger with a Whopper Jr. and fried gooey something or other, I realize that it is not all that bad being crazy. I guess it is my way of being light on my feet.