hero material

My dad celebrated his 55th birthday while I was in Ixtapa. I'm thinking now would be a good time for a little blog love and story time for this iconic gent.

Photo taken last month while he and my mom were visiting Scandinavia. Who goes to Scandinavia? They are crazy.

Story #1:
I must have been three at the time. But I have a distinct memory of Audrey laying on the floor as a baby as my mom began screaming at the top of her lungs, "Phil! PHIL!!!!" He came running in and bent over Audrey as my mom began sobbing. Then he said something like, "Melissa, go get a knife from the kitchen." And she responded with, "Phil, no! No, no, no, no!!! With a kitchen knife?" Later I learned Audrey had had a seizure of some sort and my dad was planning on performing a tracheotomy to open her airway. Lucky for her (and her flawless collarbone), she began to breathe again and no cutting or scarring was necessary.

Noelle and Audrey. I will never forgive my mom for the mullet cut she made me wear for years.

Story #2:
When Audrey was little, she had a thing for lemon drops. Or maybe Grandpa Bryant only thought she had a thing for them, but he sent her a package of them every year. And one day she popped a lemon drop in her mouth while we were riding in my dad's Honda. I looked over at her as strange sounds began emanating from her body and I yelled at my dad to pull over. He yanked her out of the car and proceeded to do the Heimlich on her. Shortly after, I heard a lemon drop skittle on to the gravel below and all was well again. Though she complained of a sore throat the rest of the way home.

Audrey at the piano.

Story #3:
A four-year-old Danielle was sitting across the kitchen table from me one morning eating orange slices as I perused the comics in the Sunday newspaper (loved Family Circus, by the way). I looked up all of a sudden to see Danielle with her hands at her throat, eyes wide. I yelled for my dad just as she began to fall off the chair. He came running in, scooped her up before she hit the floor, threw her over his knee with one hand cupping her chin and used the other hand to pound on her back. When a small piece of orange flew across the kitchen floor and skidded to my feet, I think I said something like, "Eww, sick."

Danielle, Audrey and Noelle looking awesome. The flowers are blinding, non? I think we're holding up certificates from this ridiculous modeling class Mom signed us up for at the mall. I can still hear the crazy modeling instructor lady... "Pivot, quarter turn. Pivot, quarter turn."

Story #4:
One Saturday morning when I was about 11 years old, my five-year-old brother, Jason, and I were eating Kicks cereal in the kitchen. I could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner coming from the garage, which meant my dad was cleaning the cars outside. When I looked up at Jason he was studying the little balls of Kicks and next thing I knew he was stuffing them up his nostrils. They fit, and he was ecstatic. He began doing a little jig for me but then abruptly stopped when he realized he could not get them out. I told him to close his mouth and blow his nose, but it didn't work. Panic ensued, and his happy dance turned into tears of terror. So I grabbed his arm and pulled him to the garage. "Look what he did, Papa," I said. "And he can't get 'em out." My dad took one look at Jason's tear-streaked face, one look at the vacuum cleaner hose in his hand, and then stuck the attachment up to my brother's nose. The Hoover sucked those puppies right out. Jason was saved.

My dad often reminds us of the many times he has saved each of our lives. (That last story wasn't an actual life-saving event per se, but noteworthy nonetheless). "Yes, yes. You're our hero," we say, dripping with sarcasm, skepticism and other -isms.

But one day when I was in high school, we heard about a girl in our class who had been in a car accident. She had been riding in the back of a truck up Signal Mountain, and when the truck crashed with another car, she had flown out the back. She was paralyzed from the waist down and was consigned to a wheel chair. My dad was her physical rehabilitation doctor. Later when she came back to school, she wheeled up to me at my locker one day. "Noelle, I just want you to know I love your dad. He saved my life. He is my hero." Really? I think that was the first time I realized how much other people loved my dad, too.

I think I'm about 17 in this picture, but I can't remember. All I know is it must have been mega-bright outside.

Papa, I love you. You're my hero. And I really mean it.