Glitter, cake and my heart

By Deborah Taylor-Hollis

Father's Day is coming up. Since I was unable to celebrate Mother's Day with my own mom because of her illness, I am suddenly taking these national mandatory guilt days very seriously. The official dates are not so important, but they tend to give those of us who take things for granted a little push.

I know that, without an official holiday, I would probably never find the time to buy blank cards and envelopes, sit down with my son, and have him write out notes with hand prints, hearts and glitter stars. He gets glitter glue all over the hardwood table, uses almost $20 of stickers that fill every available space, and then forgets to sign his name.

I know that if the date on the calendar wasn't important in an official sense, I might just put off baking that special cake my Dad loves--the recipe that gramma got in Germany. The frosting takes three hours and only comes out right after I've wasted $30 worth of ingredients that burned.

I am glad that American retailers greedily make sure that I honor these days. There is much to honor.

After smoking more than two packs a day for 23 years, I quit smoking at midnight on December 31, 1998. Cold turkey.

I could not have done this without my Dad's example 35 years ago when he put down the Kents and never looked back. It made him a healthy, happier man, and his decision was a large part of my willpower. His health was a strong reminder of what I could look forward to if I quit, too.

Twenty-five years ago, my Dad, an avid hunter, put away his rifles and decided that he couldn't take another life without a better reason than simple pleasure.

This had a profound impact on me. He showed me that, even for someone who loved the outdoors and cherished his weapons, he could see it in a different way--and make the decision stick.

My whole life, I have always wanted to help those in trouble, which is another of my dad's legacies.

A few years ago, he let his former high school roommate move into the house he shared with my mom and my sister. He held out the hand of friendship when the man, whom I'll call "Ned" had no home but his car, no friends but my dad, and even his family refused him. Daddy was trying to help.

Dad tried to help, but Ned didn't make it easy. Ned brought his big dog to the house and it chased the cats. Ned borrowed money and promised to pay him back. Ned's friends and business partners called at all hours. Ned got into a fight with my sister, threw all her clothes outside and poured bleach on them. Ned fought with the neighbors. Ned left filthy messes and dirty plates everywhere.

But Daddy kept trying to help him, even near the end, when Ned would microwave canned dog food in the morning for his pooch, filling the entire house with a smell so evil even the termites fled to the neighbor's fence.

Only then did Daddy withdraw his support--but not until he found another place for Ned: A church, with no microwave.

My dad paid every veterinary bill for every injured animal he ever found, even if they took off three days later. He supported every stupid decision my sister and I ever made.

"Well Dear," he'd say, "It could work out. You can't say for sure it won't. No one can be sure."

And he was never one to say "I told you so" when things fell apart. He'll never call in advance to tell you he's going to drop by, never leave a dirty dish in your sink, and never back away from a political argument.

He is not the most practical or responsible man in the world, and I am glad. That's why I'm not taking this Father's Day--or, for that matter, any days--for granted, ever again.

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