So maybe I never wore a cute polka dot dress, but there was a time as the youngest child that I helped my dad with everything. I learned how to use tools, stop bleeding, and pull splinters. I did a lot of stuff with my dad. A lot of memories of fixing cars, building cabinets, and fabricating parts we couldn't find in stores. With a mix of broken English and Lao my dad said things like:
Measure twice, cut once.
Make sure you keep track of the parts with tape or marker.
Check the fit, before you tighten.
Never pay full price for a car. Haggle or walk away.
I developed my love for physical problem solving and tinkering with support from my dad. My mom loved that because it kept me out of her hair. I was a terrible kitchen helper and couldn't reach the clothesline or inside the washer just yet. Being small was actually an advantage because I learned how to squeeze into places and use my hands in blind or obstructed situations. This would come in very handy in adult life.
My dad taught me a lot about myself and how to adapt. He was always happy to see us and sad to see us move away. He taught me about practical jokes and how to drive. Parallel parking was his specialty. What I love most about my dad, was no matter how many times I got in trouble at school or screwed up I was always welcome to go fishing and I was always welcome home. Not to say that he wouldn't be cross or furious with my behavior, but he was often quick to show me that I was always going to be loved.
My father died in 2008 of bladder cancer. I can write that without tearing up. There was a time where I was brought to my knees every time I thought of it. Now, it doesn't hurt any less, but it just gets to the point where it stops hurting worse. I don't have a lot of photos with me and my dad doing stuff, but I have a lot of memories and this cover from the New Yorker evokes a lot of those pleasant memories.
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