... the tales of two sisters

Dana lives in Seattle, and Tracie lives in Germany. We are businesswomen, writers and humorists. We write about life, dating, and today's modern women.

Daddy, Me and the Ring

With Father’s Day being celebrated this weekend in America, we menopausebarbees thought we’d share a post entitled “Daddy, Me and the Ring” recalling only one of the many lessons our father taught us as children. He was our pillar of genuine strength and support. There was time when I even thought he could make pigs fly. He continuously raised the bar and though it challenged my socks off, I loved the thrill of trying to reach it and I will always, always thank him for this.

We miss him dearly and unfailingly, and when my sisters and I face certain forks in the road, we always ask ourselves, “what would Daddy do?” and in my eyes, that is perhaps the highest compliment an offspring can say about a parent.

All you Daddies out there, love your babies. They’ll always remember and thank you for it and have a wonderful Father’s Day.

Daddy, Me and the Ring

Dani I don’t know if you remember this story–I don’t think you were born yet when it came to pass. Now don’t get it twisted– I’m not saying that I’m that much oder than you–it just means that I was young when this story took place.

Dear readers, I’d just like to say that I hope you’ve been as fortunate as Dana and I have been to have had a father or role model who, despite his faults and idiosyncrasies (and who does not have them?) taught you the purpose of goodness and charity, instilled within you a certain uprightness and taught you morals to abide by.

This particular event happened while we were in San Francisco. Family vacationing with friends. There are certain elements of this story that are highlighted in my mind in color…fire engine red for example.

We had just hopped off a cable car and after walking about for just a short time, entered a huge, gigantic, gargantuan, muscle man sized store. Great big store. And in one part of this monster sized store there were counters, lots and lots of counters and it took every thing I had to stand on my tippy toes just so I could see what they held. There were rings. Thousands and hundreds and millions of rings, each one prettier and shinier and redder and bluer and pinker and greener than the other. And bigger.

Well, after a time we exited the store and hopped on another cable car.
After a few minutes, Daddy looked at my hand and said, “Where’d you get that ring?”
I silently looked up at him.
“Where’d you get that ring Tracie?”
He was mad.

Whenever Mama was about to get on my butt it was “Tracie Lynn!” but when Daddy said it, Tracie was all he said. It just had a certain unmistakable . . . effect, if you will.

“From the store,” I said.
“How’d you buy it?”
“I asked you a question goddammit!”
“I didn’t!”
“Well then, how’d you get it?
If I had been big enough to say, “Jeez, Daddy you know how I got the damn ring, give me a damn break!” – it would have been at that very moment.
“I took it.”
“You took it. You mean you stole it!”
Silence from me. Silence from him.

I was candy happy because he’d quieted down – he had this thing about not caring who was around or where he was when he got the urge to raise his voice and yay! I got to keep my ring!

After a time we got off that trolley and got on another one. Before I knew it we were . . . standing outside that huge, gigantic, gargantuan, muscle man sized store. He looked down at me, released my hand and grabbed hold of my arm. Tightly.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said “We’re gonna go back in this store and we’re gonna find a saleslady and you’re going to tell her that you stole this ring, that you are very sorry, you want to return it and will never steal again.”

“What?! Daddy no! I swear I won’t do it again and I really didn’t mean it and . . .” He tightened his grip and almost dragged me back into that store.
He approached the nearest saleslady.
“Excuse me Miss. My daughter here has something to say to you.”
I really didn’t have anything to say to this woman so I didn’t. Daddy jerked my arm to help jog my memory. At the time, I didn’t understand the notion of choosing between the lesser of two evils. Mortified, I said it.
Good grief! I remember this like it happened just yesterday.

The saleslady was so impressed (or dumbfounded) that she said I could keep the ring. Daddy wasn’t having any of that. He instructed the woman to show us where the ring belonged and made me follow her – with him on my heels – to one of those great big shiny glossy counters so that I could have the honor of putting the shitty ring back. I stood in front of the counter, looked up at him, turned and looked up at the saleslady, and then I turned and faced all those thousands and hundreds and millions of rings. I didn’t bother standing on my toes.

I hurled the ring onto the counter, turned around and marched away towards the door of that huge, gigantic, gargantuan, muscle man sized store.

I am after all, my father’s child.