Evergreen and Jethro Tull

I was sitting on the floor of my warm, cozy family room--wrapping Christmas gifts and listening to Harry Connick Jr. belt out holiday tunes from my stereo speakers.  The green garland on top of the entertainment center was lighted and twinkling, perfectly festive with holly berries and pine cones throughout.  My new "Evergreen" candle--fir balsam and mint, blended with spicy clove and pine--was burning on the mantel above the fireplace.  I drew a deep breath and was struck by nostalgia.  The smell of that candle reminded me of the cologne my dad wore when I was a kid.  Suddenly, I longed to be a little girl again, riding atop his strong shoulders.

My dad was always very cool.  No, more than cool.  He was hip.  His coal-black hair was thick and slightly wavy.  His dark brown eyes would shine when he laughed.  He always wore a jean jacket and sported a mustache and sideburns.  As I got a little older--moving into awkward preteen and teen years--friends who once said, "Your dad is so funny," started saying, "Your dad is a babe."

I remember Dad was the one who took me to get my ears pierced when I was five.  When it came time to take my studs out, after the tiny holes in my earlobes had healed, it was my dad who told me to wear mismatched earrings:

"Why wear one pink heart and one gold star?", I asked.

"Because Madonna does it," he replied, "and that's the style.  It's cool!"

So I did.

Vogue.

Dad was good with his hands.  He worked on our broken-down cars, painted our bedrooms, and landscaped our yard.   He always had a "project" he was working on--whether it be a home repair, a bush to plant, or a part to buy for his big, red, clunky truck.  I loved that old, red truck!  I don't remember the make or model or year of it.  I don't remember when my dad purchased it or why.  I only remember the good stuff:  It didn't have seat belts.  It didn't have AC.  The stereo didn't work, so Dad bought and installed a new one, complete with tape deck.  I remember all the fun I had as Dad's passenger in the cab.

Saturday was the best day of the week.  Dad usually had an errand to run, mainly to the hardware store for lumber or PVC pipe or vegetable seeds.  Running those errands with him was a treat, and my heart would do a little dance in my chest whenever he asked me to come along.  I knew that riding with him meant two things:  I'd get a Slurpee at our "mandatory 7-Eleven stop," and we'd jam!

My dad was into rock and roll and liked listening to his music loud.  He'd pop a cassette tape into the tape deck and say, "Now remember--do NOT tell your mother I let you listen to this stuff."  If it was warm outside he'd roll down the windows.  He'd hit "play" and turn the volume up, up, up!  Sometimes the music was so loud we'd have to shout to hear each other.  We'd cruise around in his truck with the wind in our hair and the song lyrics on our lips.

And that was how I learned about Steppenwolf, Pink Floyd, and a bullfrog named Jeremiah.  I knew the lyrics to Jethro Tull's, "Aqualung," by the time I was nine.  I learned all about Deep Purple and how "Smoke On The Water" was Dad's favorite record when he was younger, when his hair was a lot longer.  We would listen to Led Zeppelin often.  I came to love Robert Plant's musical genius, and the way my dad would drum his hands on the steering wheel; keeping time to the infectious beat of "Whole Lotta Love."

I tied a green bow around one of the packages I had been wrapping, awoken from my reverie by Harry's snappy rendition of "Let It Snow."  Memories seemed to swirl around me like the fragrance of the "Evergreen" candle.  In that moment, I had an epiphany--so simple, but profound.   I realized my kindhearted, humorous, unbelievably hip, and wonderful dad gave me one of the most precious gifts any parent can give a child:  Time.  He gave me his time.  I knew I would love him forever for that.      

I walked over to the stereo and ejected Harry Connick Jr.'s holiday CD.  I replaced it with Jethro Tull's "Original Masters," pressed the "play" button, and went back to my wrapping.  Interestingly enough, track one is the song, "Living in the Past."  As Ian Anderson's unique voice filled the room I thought about my past, my memorable childhood and all the time I spent with my dad.

I remembered to turn the volume up.