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I MISS MY DAD
It is just funny when things occur to me. I live my daily life with certain thoughts always riding in the back of my mind---"I need to balance the check book, the truck needs new shocks, the refrigerator needs a new box of baking soda, I miss my family". One of my assignments tonight was to shoot a quick story on a Valentine's Day dance for fathers and daughters. I knew I only had about 20 minutes there before I had to be at the police station in Cary for an interview about a car accident. Before I even left the station, I knew it would be a enjoyable story. Several of us joked about how we could never drag our Dads to such a thing. I got to the church hall hosting the dance about ten minutes after it started. No one was dancing, but they were taking pictures. Much like Prom, the men with their "dates" would pose in front of a white piece of paper with a bunch of red hearts on it and someone would snap a Polaroid of them. But unlike Prom pictures, where ten years later you look at them and realize you can't remember the other person's last name, these little snap shots gain value through the years. As I watched curly haired little girls climb on to Dad's big lap and snuggle up to him as the flash blinded the pair, I could imagine the father putting that picture in the center desk drawer in his office at work and when he would be having a bad day or needed a little encouragement to go out and save the world (as all Dads do everyday) he would sneak a peak of that moment and remember why he does it all.
Soon the fathers and daughters started dancing to popular songs from the 50's and 60's. A toddler clung tightly to her father's business suit as he swung her around and bent over for a "dip". A teenage girl rolled her eyes at her father as he tried to waltz with her, knowing down deep inside she would not trade this for the world. Two bouncy little sisters played ring around the rosy with Daddy caught in the middle trying not to show he was having the time of his life, but not doing a very good job of concealing it. And I stood there with my camera on my tripod, zooming in on tiny little girl feet dancing with big Daddy feet, panning from beaming Dad to bubbling little girl, tapping my foot to Van Morris's "Brown-Eyed Girl", missing my Dad. |
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Lynn
French
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Contributor
since 1998
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Behind
the Viewfinder - A Year in the Life of Photojournalism |
Through
the years the drawer would fill up with other things: computer discs with
that file on it he didn't need today but could tomorrow, a favorite pen
that ran dry, business cards of acquaintances he promised to call for
lunch but never did, the paper clip jewelry he made during a staff meeting,
numerous buttons off sport coats and shirt collars. And then that last
day would come and he would clean out the desk drawer. As he would sift
through the layers of worthless things, plastered to the bottom of the
drawer by the combination of photo emulsion and humidity would be that
picture of his little girl. And she would be all grown up probably on
her second job out of college, still with curly blonde hair (now thanks
to Miss Clairol), but she would still love yellow cats, chocolate icing
and hugs from her Dad.