Happy Father's Day

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. --Anne Sexton

I remember Dad as a handsome, impulsive young buck who lived life fast and furiously and was a bundle of fun. If this picture doesn't say it, then I'll give you two examples:

When I was sixteen, Dad took me to the mall to shop for school clothes. He strode confidently through JC Penney’s and started pulling all the tops down off every female mannequin, occasionally tweaking a "breast" or flicking a "vagina". The mall police caught up to us, and I had to interpret the awkward conversation between Dad and the rent-a-cops:

“Who cares? They don’t have nipples,” Dad shirked.

“It's not right,” the officers awkwardly retorted, reluctant to have this conversation with a teenage girl and her dad.

Dad would not relent. "They're plastic," He signed, with a sly grin.

The officers resorted to pleading, "Please, just tell him to stop."

"Okay, fine," and we sped through the store out to the car where I laughed at Dad's animated mimicking of the exasperated faces of the security guards.

Then, during my junior year, my high school made it to the State championships for a one act play competition held at the University of Texas in Austin. Afterwards, we waited anxiously in the auditorium for the judges to make their decision.

I was chatting with my friends when suddenly I heard a smattering of gasps and giggles mixed in with familiar guttural noises and high-pitched nonsensical sounds reverberating through the sound system. I looked up saw Dad doing his best gyrating Elvis impersonation into the microphone. A few people rushed the stage and the emcee wrested the microphone from the Dad’s hands. This did not faze him one iota, and he continued to perform more enthusiastically to the crowd. Frustrated, the emcee announced, "If he belongs to you, would you get this monkey off the stage?!?!"

My friend Scott turned to me and queried, "Hey Kambri, isn't that your DAD?!"

My mother scrambled to the stage as Dad was taking his bows. Always the entertainer, Dad had left his lasting impression. Later when I asked him just what the hell was he thinking, he said that since the UT students had just bawdily spoofed all the plays -- a way to keep us occupied while the judges made their decisions -- it couldn't be all that big a deal for him to take the stage for a minute.

As the Chinese proverb states, "One father is more than a hundred schoolmasters." And, if there's one lesson Dad taught me, it would be:

It is easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

Happy Father's Day to him.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

My mother is a pretty lady. She laughs a lot . . . real loud with a big, open mouth that reveals two rows of perfect teeth.

She's deaf without the aid of two hearing aids, one of which will always be on the fritz or in need of a battery. She can talk very clearly. So clearly, in fact, you wouldn't even know she's deaf. But ask her to say "Mississippi", then you'll know. I think sometimes that embarrasses her, but I love it. I love it when she says "Mississippi".

My mom is the hardest working woman I know. She used to build helicopters but now works for Halliburton making oil sensors. She was in a Bud commercial during the "For all you do, this Bud's for you!" advertising phase.

My mom built a helicopter for the NYPD and got a hat from it. My dad used the NYPD hat to try to get out of a traffic ticket. I was with him and acted as his interpreter. My dad told the truth to me, and I interpreted a lie to the cop which was better. He didn't get a ticket. When I moved to New York, I worked on the precedent-setting licensing efforts and confiscate unlicensed NYPD hats which escalated after 9/11. Funny how things go full circle.

My mom can embarrass me, hate me, like me, anger me, comfort me and love me like no other and today is her birthday. I called her on her cell phone and she's at the beach again.

I don't miss that beach, but I miss that beach with her when she'd make homemade sour cream and onion dip, and I'd get scolded for double dipping the Ruffles.

When we got back to our trailer in the woods, we smelled like the ocean for days. Tiny grains of the beach would find their way into my bed and scratch my sunburnt skin as I slept. I would always get too much sun so my mom would rub me down with vinegar and freshly cut aloe plant to take the chills and blisters away.

We'd talk about our trip. About how my uncle got stung by a jelly fish. About how we got a flat tire on our '66 Chevy pick up truck. About how my Flintstones flip-flop fell through a rotted slat while riding in the back of that Chevy. About how my dad stopped the truck then and there to run across four lanes of Houston highway traffic to rescue that flip-flop for me because he loved me that much.

He was probably drunk, but I didn't care. I was in awe but I felt guilty, too. That flip-flop was a cheap old thing and didn't even fit me anymore.