For the man who forced me to take Speech class

 
Once upon a time there was a very awkwardly shy 12 year old. She was on the cusp of everything great: braces just removed, contacts in her eyes, and an awesome pair of Doc Martens in the closet. There was only one problem: her very cruel father made her take a class entitled "Speech" as an elective during her very first year of Junior High. No, Speech wasn't for those with lisps and Elmer Fudd-ish speech impediments. It was a class solely dedicated to teaching you how to stand up in front of a group of people and give a speech.

Oh, the horror!  Oh, the terror!  Why did my Dad want to embarrass me to death in my 7th grade year?!  How I dreaded that class.  How I hated that man to the very tip-toes of my dramatic teenage body.  And boy, I must have made his life miserable.

But he wouldn't let me out of it, no matter how many tears were shed, no matter how many stomping fits I threw.  I had to take Speech.

A funny thing happened once I started that class: I actually enjoyed it.  Mrs. Riddle (I'm at least 80% sure that was her name) taught us how to write an outline.  An outline!  I have used her format ever since.  I learned that chewing gum while group speaking was an absolute no-no, to force myself to make eye contact with people who completely terrified me, to speak slowly and enunciate, and, most of all, not to say "um" ever when talking.  I actually ended up liking the class.

Yep.  It's the truth.

So, today on the day that we honor our fathers across this nation, I would like to publicly thank my father for making me do hard things.  Speech class was one of the few electives that I can actually remember and I still use the stuff I learned in my every day life (although I still have a bitter taste from the Drama class and the Debate class- hated those).

Thank you Dad, for making me ride the Colossus even though you literally had to pry me fingers from the gate and drag a kicking and screaming girl all the way onto the ride platform (remember how I wanted to ride it again and again after the first time?).

Thank you for making me drive Mom's huge ole Expedition after I totaled my first car (that was a hard horse to get back on).

Thanks for making me ask my teacher for the role of Snow White in my preschool play when I was cast as Baby Bear (I was still stuck as the annoying crying bear, but it taught me a bit of courage).

Thanks for pushing me into the AP classes when I was happy to coast by in the regular English class.

I would like to point out, again, how mad I was at my Dad over every one of these situations.  I was so sure that he was purposefully trying to ruin my life and that he enjoyed wringing his hands and laughing maniacally while I died of embarrassment and fear every time.

Because I am counting this blog post as the greatest part of my Father's Day gift (you always wanted me to write your life story, Dad), I am about to lay on the compliments really thick right here:

My Dad has always been the greatest fan of my life.  He is the one that, to this day, still thinks of me as the smartest, most creative person on earth- or at least he makes me feel that way.

To this day, when OP and I argue over something and I declare him to be wrong and myself obviously right, Orrin will say, "Oh- I forgot.  Your Dad says you're the genius."

Yes, yes he does.

Thanks for teaching me the magic of throwing cupcake liners on a blowing fan.  How to roll a hula-hoop along the ground so that it comes back to you.  The art of negotiating with the teenagers that work the carnival booths at amusement parks. Thanks for teaching me how to see an ugly scratch on furniture as a memory made.

You taught me to give to family and friends, without expectation of being paid back.   Also, that you have to wear your lace-up tennis shoes whenever you are doing anything important.  By important I mean mowing the lawn, walking around an amusement park, or flying on an airplane.  You are a fool if you don't have proper shoe attire.

And, we can't ever forget the sage secret of wiping Carmex on the inside of your sock to get the greasiness off of your fingers.

Thanks for everything, Dad.

Today you should go play a round of golf and pretend like I paid for it.  Make sure you go somewhere nice.




Oh, and you were right.  I should have gone to nursing school.