My youngest daughter got married last Saturday. It was a very beautiful event. Most of it seemed to just fly by. I guess being the father of the bride gave me so much to think about that it was hard to take it all in. My baby actually becoming a wife, the expense (I'll be paying for this for years to come. Or at least it feels that way), seeing two very dear family members that live on the other side of the country...

 

But there is one thing I remember every little detail about. The Father-Daughter Dance. Sure, I knew it would be very special. I'm an emotional guy when it comes to my family. Saying Grace at a holiday meal chokes me up ever since my own dad died. So I was ready for the watery eyes. My oldest daughter whispered to me that her sister had a surprise for me. I had no idea what she meant.

 

The dance was announced, and I got to my feet and walked the few steps to the dance floor as my daughter walked around the bridal table to meet me. I took her hand and she said, "Daddy, the version of this song is a bit peppy, but it was the best one I could find." Still no clue.

 

Then the music started playing. The crowd was applauding so it was hard to hear the music. I finally picked up a few bars. It was Ray Charles singing "You Are My Sunshine". So what's the big surprise, you ask. That was the song I sang to my daughter when she was a little baby. When she got old enough she would sing it with me.

 

The tears started flowing just like the wine was. My heart was filled with love so much that it ached.  The lyrics really aren't what you would expect for a father-daughter dance. They are actually rather said. If you are not familiar with the song, I'll sum it up by saying it is sung by a person who has been separated from his loved one.

 

Now that I think of it, maybe it is more appropriate than I figured. My responsibility to take care of her, protect her, shelter her will never totally end, but now it is her husband's duty.

 

It's a tough thing for me to realize.

I saw a commercial for microwave popcorn (which all are an abomination to true popcorn lovers as I confess to be) in which the little girl hosting a tea party with her dolls and stuffed animals refuses to let a couple adult males share her popcorn. "Tea party!" she insisted.

 

The next shot was with the girl and the big guys sitting at a child's table having a tea party, hats, feather bollas and all. Ah, the power of that brand of popcorn.

 

Yeah, right! Here is what I saw...

 

The little girl was hosting an imaginary tea party, and her daddy and maybe her uncle joined in just because they wanted to, not because of the temping popcorn. It brought back a flood of memories that I hope I can cherish til I die. My two girls had many a tea party. Once in awhile, they would extend an invitation to me. I was thrilled! The two angels of my life wanted me to share in their imaginary tea party. What higher praise could a daddy get?

 

The chairs were Munchkin-sized. The tea cups were mere thimbles in this giant's awkward hands, but the magic was all around us. With the first tilt of the teapot, the living room became a 5-star hotel. The tea party was suddenly the most elegant gathering of only the best of society ( except for my humble presence).

 

"Daddy! you NEVER put your spoon on the table! Put it on the saucer!"

 

"Did you know that Sally adopted the cutest little kitten? She found it stuck in a drain pipe. It's now so fat and fluffy, I just know it will grow up big and strong because she loves it just like Mommy and Daddy love us."

 

"Tommy said he's doing much better reading now that the teacher knows he mixes up letters."

 

"Daddy, thank you for coming to our party. It's always so much fun having you sit with us."

 

By then I was wiping my eyes a lot and mumbling about hay fever. But those moments will remain with me long after the last Super Bowl game plays out...the last job promotion comes through...the last deadline is met or not.

The previous post was supposed to be an animated picture of me as Santa Claus, but I guess one cannot embed objects in one's blog.

 

Too bad, I look good in red.

More's the pity! the email address for Mr. Brockman is no longer in service. If anyone knows how to get in touch with this genius I'd be ever so grateful to have that information.