Holy, train wreck. I think the F-bomb hasn't been dropped that many times on an airplane after a safe landing ever.
As I attempted to curl up into a ball of depression in our hotel room, Dan stood me on my feet and pushed me toward the elevator. Food and drink. I was too depressed to drink and refused to sit within 20 yards of SportsCenter. It was time for a distraction.
Craps. Real money craps.
It was my first time playing in an actual casino, but with my $60 and a basic understanding of the game provided by years of coaching by my father, I made some great bets - and had a hot roll - leading us to triple up our cash and walk away happy. The free gin helped.
I began thinking about how damn cool my dad, or D as generally referred to, was/is to teach me the importance of craps. "You go into the casino with the mindset of winning, not having a certain amount to lose. Craps has the best odds. Put money on the pass line. Buy the odds. Start there. Read a book" and most recently, "Get the App," he said.
Damn he's cool. Which brings me to the top five practical things I've learned from D:
1. The rules of American Football. For me, it started at age nine with a feigned interest in whether the blue shirts were beating the white shirts as an attempt to dodge Sunday service. If I could entrench myself on the couch with D, then maybe mom would leave me home. On those rare occasions that I won the battle, I began driving D crazy with questions about this pointless tacklefest. He obliged, leading me to a real interest in the long bomb, Joe Montana's physique (ca. 1991), a series of college and career choices, and today, an unhealthy emotional reaction to the W-L record of a certain Oregon team.
2. Basics of casino gambling. See above, re: craps, but it doesn't stop there. When you roll out the Chutes and Ladders in our house, D runs for the hills. However, his "life is too serious for games" mantra doesn't apply to serious games. As soon as I'd mastered solitaire, I was ready for family blackjack night. Christmas Eve? Real money poker. I am definitely not high-stakes, but I've killed even the cockiest of the husband's buddies in many a friendly round of Texas Hold' em.
3. Practical applications of semi-automatic weapons. All good dads teach their kids the basics of gun safety. I'm not a huge shooter, but am glad to know how to safely not shoot myself and others. My learning went slightly beyond basic one day as my teenage angst threatened to destroy me, and possibly cause my family to go insane. D, tired of my whining, decided that it was time to experience the theraputic benefits of rapid-fire destruction at close range. I gripped the gun, extended it out, and squeezed one into a coffee can about 10 feet away. "Again!" Pop. "Again!" Pop. "Again, again, again, again!" Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. And zen. Relief. Don't fu*k with me.
4. (Big) Safe driving. When I turned 16, I didn't get the big red bow on the little silver car. I got the keys to the 1985 Ford F-350 XLT. Stylish in black and primer grey, this beauty was geared for towing trailers. Start out in second, after a long engine warm up, and if it doesn't start flood it and pray. My 100-lb. self climbed into my giant ride and could handle even the nastiest snowstorms, after properly turning in the hubs and shifting into first. I tried driving mom's Honda, end ended up upside down in a ditch. I think keeping me behind the wheel of something large until late 2006 helped me become the (grandma-ish) driver I am today. It was a graduation from D's driving school last summer when he said (after a successful trans-continental journey in my Ford Escape pulling a 20 ft. Bayliner) that, "I told my friends about your trip with the boat. I don't know if any of us would have done that. You're awesome, H." Magna cum laude.
5. The handling of large animals. I am not a farm girl. More of a hobby farm girl. I grew up on eight acres with my own horse, an affinity for mud pies, and the requirement of participating in 4-H. D hated equine, but was happy to help me raise a few bovine. It's a crazy program: you give a fifth grader a 900-pound cow, wild, and angry that you've cut off his balls. You tie him up and brush him and feed him until he's lulled into passivity, gentle and kind, and a healthy 1,300 pounds. Then you tell the kid to go out there and sell Buddy for burgers. Cue crying. Early in the wild and angry phase, D did most of the work, until he introduced me to the nose ring. The lesson: When you're dealing with a large wild animal, feed him until he's fat and happy to do whatever you want, or grab him in a very sensitive place and drag him where you want him to go. P.S. I'm still talking about cattle.
So, thanks D. I'm certain there are another million paragraphs out there waiting to be written on your wisdom and experience, but let's just start with these.
Love, H
