Ponderings of an Ohio farm girl: My Dad

What's this? Leslie, writing two blogs in one week? What is the world coming to?

Fear not, faithful reader. All is well with the world. I am writing today because it's September 22nd; first day of fall AND the birthday of my father, Mr. Thomas B. Foster. In honor of Dad's birthday, and because he is so good to me and I love him mucho much, I wanted to write a few words about my dad.

(ahem)

My earliest memories of Dad were often riding with him in the pickup truck. The truck was, even in the early 80's, a rusty white clunker. The floor had rusted through on the passenger side, so we kids were always careful to step on the frame of the door rather than on the plastic floor mat. Stepping on the mat would result in falling through to the driveway gravel. This is especially painful when your leg isn't as long as the distance between the truck floor and the driveway.

Anyway, after sucessfully getting INTO the truck, Britt, Josh and I would usually vie for the seat next to Dad. Because SOMETIMES, if you were lucky, Dad would let you shift the gears. We would sit up as close to the edge of the seat as our seatbelts would allow, both hands on the gearshift, listening carefully for the sound that meant it was time to shift. If you shifted at just the right time, you usually earned a word of praise. If not, a horrid, jarring screach sounded somewhere in the mysterious bowels of the old white truck.

Other times we would get to ride in the BED of the truck, which was roughly equivalent to a minor holiday. This almost never occured on the road, although once or twice I think I rode to the Zeller's in the back. Usually it was a trip up to the house from the back barn or maybe the woods. Those trips were dangerous adventures, indeed. Or so they seemed in my little pre-school mind. The drive from the front barn to the back one was bumpy. A kid who wasn't paying attention could fall off. Dad always warned us before we took off, "Hold on tight!" When I was really little I imagine my knuckles were white from my grip. I was afraid that I might fall off and a wolf might come attack me.

Yes, a wolf. And yes, I grew up in northwest Ohio. I can't recall a single wolf sighting in our area in my entire life. What can I say? Little kids aren't always logical. Anyway, after a few years we got Scooter, a little yellow mutt that was as loyal as the day was long. After she started tailing the pickup, I was much less concerned about the wolves.

Once in awhile I got to go to the elevator in LaFayette with Dad on a Saturday morning. I don't remember much about those trips except that the people there were a little scary and I was glad Dad was there to protect me. You may not know this, but when I was 4, my Dad was pretty much the biggest, strongest person in the world. He could pick all three of us kids up at the same time. I was pretty sure his head touched the clouds sometimes.

Some of my favorite Dad memories took place while we were on vacation. When we went on vacation it was always a holiday. Miracles happened. For example, when we would go camping for a few days at Indian Lake and we kids asked if we could have ice-cream, the answer was yes! I mean, not 'no' but 'yes'! Or if we were at a store picking up a couple of things and we asked if we could have quarters for the gumball machines (aka for a little piece of colored plastic junk) the answer might be YES! Until I was in my early teens I thought that "camping" and "vacation" were the same thing, but we had a good time camping because Dad and Mom always made it a special time.

One more endearing Dad-memory before I close. Mom was never a morning person. When you woke her from a deep sleep it took about 40 minutes and a strong cup of tea before she was coherant again. I remember one night when I was sick with who-knows-what childhood ailment, I was awakened from sleep by my father. He was holding a plastic, aligator-shaped liquid medicine dispenser full of some nasty pink concoction. I was so tired and I managed somehow to convince my father that I could successfully swallow said pink grossness from a horizontal position. I'm not sure if Dad was just too tired to see the truth, or if he was just inexperienced enough to trust his angelic daughter, but in either case he gave me the dispenser while I was still lying down.

Imagine, if you will, three-year-old Leslie, sick and in her pjs in the middle of the night, smeared from the shoulders up with pink liquid antibiotic. Imagine as well my bed, smeared equally liberally- sheets, pillow, the whole nine yards. And finally, imagine my weary, exasperated father, starting at the brightly colored mess in disbelief. This 3 minute mid-night job just turned into a 20 minute fiasco. Wash kid, change the sheets, find new jammies and put them on kid, give kid a glass of water, and THEN get back into bed. I bet he had never imagined how much fun daddy-hood could be.

So may this be a banner year for you, Dad. Thanks for all you've done for me through the years, and all you continue to do. Thanks for loving my mom. Thanks for being around and working hard to provide for us. And thanks for loving me.