If you know me at all, you know how unabashedly, unashamedly, intensely, and fiercely proud I am of my family. I love to be with them, but even when I’m not, I carry them with me, beautiful beads on the necklace of my heart. The most precious thing I have are my memories of them, and they are connected, like trains cars rolling down a West Virginia railroad track.
Today, on my Dad’s 65th birthday, I think about the train of memories pulled by him.
When I was a little girl, with a million eye appointments and surgeries, my Dad made what should’ve been a scary experience fun instead. We’d follow up my appointments with slices of pizza the size of my head at Sbarro’s and throw pennies in the fountain at the Town Center Mall.
Decorating the Christmas tree was a really big deal. All five of us kids would trail behind as Dad led the way, circling the tree with garland and lights. We were a happy little train, joyful boxcars following the engine around and around that tree until it was aglow with multi-colored lights and covered with glittery, macaroni ornaments.
Today, on my Dad’s 65th birthday, I think about the train of memories pulled by him.
When I was a little girl, with a million eye appointments and surgeries, my Dad made what should’ve been a scary experience fun instead. We’d follow up my appointments with slices of pizza the size of my head at Sbarro’s and throw pennies in the fountain at the Town Center Mall.
Decorating the Christmas tree was a really big deal. All five of us kids would trail behind as Dad led the way, circling the tree with garland and lights. We were a happy little train, joyful boxcars following the engine around and around that tree until it was aglow with multi-colored lights and covered with glittery, macaroni ornaments.
I’ve been obsessed with animals my whole life. He gave me my first dog, a puppy from a cardboard box outside of Mike’s Farm Supply. I named him Doey (not sure why!). One winter, he took me to pick out a rabbit at some obscure farm in the middle of nowhere. Riding home with that bunny on my lap, I proclaimed her name to be Maggie. Dad said that was very respectable name for a white rabbit with pink eyes.
I can type fifty zillion words per minute because I learned on a typewriter I bought for three dollars at Goodwill when I was eight. Dad told the cashier that I was the next Ernest Hemingway and that I would write the great American novel on that secondhand typewriter.
He made birthdays a big deal. He took us to the Columbus Zoo and to the movies to see Cinderella and Star Wars and Batman. He spent a bunch of Saturdays at Babcock State Park untangling fishing lines and making us sandwiches from our faithful red cooler. He watched TGIF with us on Friday nights. He took us to church.
I can type fifty zillion words per minute because I learned on a typewriter I bought for three dollars at Goodwill when I was eight. Dad told the cashier that I was the next Ernest Hemingway and that I would write the great American novel on that secondhand typewriter.
He made birthdays a big deal. He took us to the Columbus Zoo and to the movies to see Cinderella and Star Wars and Batman. He spent a bunch of Saturdays at Babcock State Park untangling fishing lines and making us sandwiches from our faithful red cooler. He watched TGIF with us on Friday nights. He took us to church.
He taught me how to ride a bike, make lasagna, change a tire, and check my oil. He taught me to gear down and let my transmission hold me back instead of using the breaks on slick, downhill roads.
My freshman year at Concord, he called my dorm phone and told me he’d found a bridal store in Salem, Virginia that had slashed all their prices in a going-out-of-business sale. He arranged for me to skip classes the next day and meet him there. He cried when I picked out my wedding dress.
My freshman year at Concord, he called my dorm phone and told me he’d found a bridal store in Salem, Virginia that had slashed all their prices in a going-out-of-business sale. He arranged for me to skip classes the next day and meet him there. He cried when I picked out my wedding dress.
I can’t put my finger on when or how or where, but somewhere along the line, he got me and my brothers and sister to drink the secret sauce---that special magic potion that seared us all together and has kept us close our entire lives. For better or worse, if you cross one of us Tucks, you can expect to reckon with all of us Tucks.
I could go on and on with the memories. Another time, I will. But for today, happy birthday, Butch. Thanks for making me feel smart and strong and capable. Thanks for the good times and the family you have given us. I love you.
The very first picture of all of seven of us.
BY Maryanne Tuck Grimmett
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