My pipe filled childhood memories

For five years I have hated February.  I have hated this cold short month.  My father of an aneurysm while driving on I 75 and Clark in Detroit.  Ironically, it was on his father's birthday, February 21.  Interestingly enough, it was right near the old Southwest Detroit neighborhood where he grew up, went to Catholic school, and played basketball.  It was instaneous.  One minute he was alive.  The next minute he was dead.

So I hate February because instead of hearts and flowers I am reminded of losing my dad who was only 58 and totally missed walking me down the aisle or seeing his grandchild.  When I was a child I was a Daddy's girl, as I grew up we became friends in addition to father and daughter.  We watched a lot of hockey and other sports together.  Saw movies.  Went to museums.  Talked politics. Exchanged books. 

 He would come to Ann Arbor to visit the campus where he went to school and we would get brunch and walk around, always browsing at the bookstores. My dad loved reading.  He always had a book in one hand and a pipe in the other. As a child I only saw him on the weekends after the divorce and at least one Saturday a month we would go to the little tabacco shop in Nikel's Arcade.  The shop is still open today and when we walk by I am instantly transported to my childhood again. 

People always think that they need to take their kid's to Disney World or Europe to give their child an amazing memory.  I can barely remember the vacations that I took as a child.  But what I do remember is the smell of my dad's pipe and the sound of his voice as he read Grimm's Fairy Tales before tucking me in at night when I was little.   I remember working in the garden with my Grandpa Smith. I remember when my Grandma would give me a little piece of cinnamon gum during the sermon at church.  I remember how my Grandpa Kepich always had Tang and little cups of ice cream for me and my cousins.  Those are the little things that make up a childhood. Everyday moments.

So this time of year always has me thinking about my dad a lot more than usual.  One thing about him is that he was always there for me, without criticism or judgement, when I had a problem.  He wasn't the type to tell me I was overreacting if something hurt me.  He wasn't the type to tell me how to fix my problems. He was just emotionally supportive and a good listener.  

For various reasons the past few days have been difficult and I wish I could just drive to my dad's house and pour my heart out and not be judged, criticized, second guessed, rejected, or excluded.  Just cared about and listened to.  And then we'd go to a movie.