He Gave Me His Hands And His Love for Donuts*

When I was growing up in San Francisco, my father was a race director. He worked for a nonprofit running organization and because of his job I spent more time in Golden Gate Park than in church on Sunday mornings. It really was a beautiful childhood, though, as I got to experience a lot of a city I didn't realize I would leave so young. A city I still miss, still love, even though it's no longer really home. For each race---and there were quite a lot he lent his time and energy to---there was always a winners podium just off the finish line where my dad stood with well-known men and women and awarded the winners cars and medals and things I always wished he'd come home with instead of boxes and boxes of Kashi cereal. It was a chaotic time and place for my dad---that winners podium---with the events of the day winding down, the sponsors standing by, the crowds inching closer to the stage, and he usually asked my sister and I to keep out of the way a little bit. We would stand off to the side, and I would tell anyone who would listen to the blond-haired kid that the man up there, in the green tracksuit, was my dad.

One such race---and the year totally escapes me, of course---as I was standing off the side of the stage with my mom and sister, a little tired and hungry I'm sure, my dad looked at me and reached his hand out. It must have been a fairly calm morning, he must have been in a particularly good mood. I walked up the steps of the stage and stood next to him throughout the medal ceremony and the end-of-the-race hoopla. And I couldn't stop beaming. I felt so important, holding my father's hand.

I was so proud to be his daughter.

Even though that feeling has escaped me somewhat over the last twenty-odd years when we've both gone about hurting the other---unintentionally, for the most part, but painful all the same---and even though life flipped upside down soon after that magical moment so those fuzzy, vague memories don't even feel like my own sometimes, I can still remember that full chest, that big, beating heart, that wide-faced grin. I remember the feel of my father's hand wrapped around my own.

We've come a long way, my father and I. We have so long to go.

But all this time and all these cracked promises later, I love him still.

Happy father's day, dad.

::

*I wouldn't say I have man hands; please don't have Seinfeld-induced mental images. Just a very feminine version of his hands. Yes, that's more accurate.

Comments

[Camels & Chocolate]

I bet I've run in some of his races before! The first one I did in the city was on a Sunday in the park!

That mac and cheese is calling me...tell it to go away! =)

[sarah]

That is really a wonderful memory. It is so important to remember the good times even if they weren't all good.

[Natalie]

beautifully written by my beautiful best friend. One day he'll grow up and realize what he's missing out on.

[Kristie]

It's great that you can look past all the hurt for just a moment and remember a tender moment. Sometimes it's hard to do that, especially with dad's that aren't daddy material. I have one of those dad's, too.

[Kristabella]

I have my dad's hands too.

Some dads don't realize the importance of those small gestures and how much daughters want so many of those moments from their fathers. We live for those moments as little girls.

My best memories of my dad are those moments, when he put me on a pedestal instead of putting me down.

[water sign]

A lovely memory. Funny how it's often those small things that stick with us for so long.

[Angella]

My Dad has caused me (and my siblings) more hurt than I could ever share. Plus, he reads me, so that also puts a damper on the sharing.

He's still my Dad, though, and the good he *does* have in him? He gave to me.

I find that if I just accept him for who he is, I am a lot happier. Sounds like you have done the same.

[Nicole]

I'm glad we are able to hold onto good memories to help us get through the not-so-good times. I hope the future holds good memories for you, Jennifer.

[Rachel]

I remember that god awful cereal. Tasted like dirt. I remember all the Bonnie Bell packs too! A lifetime supply of chapstick...

Noone understands my love/obsession with donuts like you do. : )

[Rachel]

Beautiful...

[Loralee]

Very sweet post.

And?

You're lucky because I TOTALLY have man hands.

Bleck.

[StartsWithanX]

I'm sure your dad remembers it just as well. That's a great memory. ...BTW, I totally wasn't imagining the man hands until you mentioned it!