Today I woke up missing my dad. I miss him everyday but somedays are harder than others. This is one of them.

I remember growing up on a road called Mantilla Drive. My dad built the house, as well as a few others on the street (he was a home builder). Out of all the houses we lived in growing up, this one holds the most memories.

I remember my dad built a gazebo off the back deck and I used to go down there with my friends and shoot movies with our video camera. One time, there was a wasp nest in one of the corners on the stairs. We are so afraid of getting stung so we would run as fast as we could up the stairs, past the nest and flew into the house to avoid the sting. My sister didn’t make it.

This house was cool because it had two staircases, one of which went straight above the living room couch. My brother, sister and I would climb up the ledge of the stairs and jump off the highest step onto the couch below. My dad would always come in and discipline us, repeatedly telling us we would hurt ourselves and to stop doing it. We never listened.

My dad took me to the park up the street to learn how to ride a bike. I was so scared I was going to fall. He told me we weren’t leaving the park until I learned. I cried and cried and insisted he hold the bike until I was ready. Finally, he let go of the bike and I took off. I proceeded to spend the next 5 hours riding that bike in the cul-de-sac across the street.

When I grew up, things were different than they are now. We never locked the doors to our house. We had to call our friends on the house phone or knock on their door to ask their parents directly if so-and-so could “come out and play”. We played outside until the street lights came on. We built forts and rebuilt forts after the local neighborhood security guard we called Butterfinger tore them down. Every year we mapped out our trick-or-treating route for Halloween, filling at least half a pillow case full of candy, only to be eaten by my dad. I drove my first car when I was 11 and ran it into the side of the house. I got in my first accident at 14 when I side swiped the car next to me in the parking lot. Birthday parties were hosted in the camper my parents bought in the backyard. My dad, brother, sister and I used to take the leftover firecrackers from 4th of July and light them off right as cars drove past.

My dad loved to have fun. He bought a 4-wheeler and taught us all how to drive it, watching us each day in the field behind our house as we drove back and forth. We lived in a neighborhood at the time so 4-wheelers weren’t really an “acceptable toy” according to the HOA, but we didn’t care. I used to drive that thing up to Kroger to get milk for my mom. One time, the police saw me and tried to pull me over. I wasn’t having it and took off, trying to make it to the walking trail where the cops car couldn’t fit. I didn’t quite make it in time and ended up getting pulled over. Right at that same moment, my friend Casey Cravens mom drove past and saw me. She pulled over and asked what was going on. The police explained the situation and asked her if she could drive the 4-wheeler back to our house while the police took me in the back of his car (I was only 12 at this time). As we waited at my house, the police officer, myself and my dad, for Casey’s mom, all of a sudden we heard it in the distance. She came flying around the corner at full speed, slamming on the brakes when she got to us and yelled “Man, that was fun! Whoo hoo!” We all died laughing and I didn’t get a ticket.

Man I miss my dad.