father's day

I am the proud daughter of a pretty great dad. In my small-ish town, when people who knew my father would ask if I was "Bruce Coalwell's daughter," I would always smile and reply "Yes, I am."

When I was little, he would take my sister and I to the park on Sunday afternoons for daddy-daughter dates. After choir concerts we'd go get peppermint candy ice cream and celebrate. And when I was in middle school, I'm pretty sure he got up earlier than he would have liked to so he could drive me to school and I wouldn't have to take the bus.

Over the years, as I've grown up a little bit, he has become one of my closest friends, too. Major decisions and concerns are always accompanied by good conversations with my dad. He reassures me that I'm still young enough to take risks and that if I fail, he'll be there to catch me.

And that my dreams are just as important to him as they are to me.

Through all my adventures and mishaps, successes and moments of doubt, he is a constant I can always rely on.

I hope the future father of my children, whoever he may be, has the kind of commitment, integrity and patience that my dad has.

Thanks, dad for all you do. I love you!

image via this

The legacy of Atticus Finch

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what." --Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

I read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was about 13, and loved the story. I felt like Scout, and my dad was my Atticus.

This week I read it again, with a 23-year old perspective, and dug deep into the pages of the story and the social commentary that goes along with them. I thought about families, communities, rights and wrongs and the wisdom of Scout Finch.

It's so much more than a story about racism or prejudice. It's about the strength of a family, the power of communities (for good or for evil), the simple things in life, and the never-ending debate of right vs. wrong, and what we should do with our rights about those wrongs.

It made me think about what I think and how that influences my actions. It made me long for times when life may have seemed simpler on the outside, but there were wars to fight inwardly.

Sometimes it's good to be reminded of the true strength of the human spirit.

image via

the kitchen

the darkest chocolate couldn't compete with the brown in her eyes as she wheeled that horn of plenty to the kitchen door.

the kitchen,
where tomatoes marry milk, butter and basil
to make a pot of soup
to share at the dinner table
across from the man with salt and pepper hair.

they talk about the city, the state, the world
theories are touted, and definitions are discovered

an encyclopedia is the entree
that complements the creamy tomato soup.

their conversation continues long after
the soup spoons are cold
and the bread is no more than crumbs
and water droplets have dripped down the sides of the water goblets.

and as she stacks the two bowls in one hand and walks over to rinse them in the sink,
he remembers how she wanted a house with a big kitchen
and why he was okay with that.

for my mom, my dad, and our kitchen.

family

{I've recently fallen in love with the man behind this music.
How does John Legend hit it every time?}

My family is everything to me.
They are my anchor.
And maybe we aren't perfect, because we're just people.
But they are perfect for me.

I love that the way we celebrate is by sitting down to a beautiful table to enjoy heaping plates of delicious homemade goodness.
I love that we always bicker about which direction to pass the food around the table, and what the difference is between yams and sweet potatoes.

I love that when Dad says "What we have here...is failure to communicate," we all catch the reference.
I love that Mom and I always rewind and replay our favorite parts of First Wives Club, You've Got Mail and Return to Me. And that I grew up watching Barbra Streisand movies.
I love that Christine and I can swap recipes and that we cooked a Thanksgiving feast for the two of us and Blake, because we couldn't cut out any of our favorite dishes.
I love that Kevin has the same teachers that Christine and I had growing up, and that they still remember us.
I love the late night chats Dad and I would have when I got home from working at Anthony's and needed to relax.
I love having Oma and Opa ten minutes away and sharing Sunday dinners with them.

I love that being a Coalwell means you say "police officer" instead of "cop," you probably speak some amount of another language, you don't jump on trampolines, and you love to learn.

I'm so glad we'll all be together forever.
Because it's going to be unbelievable.

home is...

chocolate chip cookies
a fridge full of food I didn't make myself
graham crackers with peanut butter and chocolate chips
reruns of old tv shows like Andy Griffith
a brother who wants to be writer
seeing people I know everywhere
umpqua dairy chocolate milk
driving my big red truck
late night chats with dad
a double bed
not worrying about school
borrowing my mom's heels
no snow, and sunshine in december
people wanting to see me
high school friends
talking about health and nutrition with my mom
making resolutions to be better
being asked if I have a boyfriend yet
...and then being assured that I've still got time

I'm so happy to be home.
To relax and not worry about papers or tests.

I hope you're all having a wonderful holiday, wherever you are!

I've started so many posts in the last week. Finished a few. Saved others half-finished.

But none were ready to post. Some may be too personal. Some may take knowing me for years to really understand. Maybe I'll post those another day.
But for now, I think a simple list will suffice.

Because, after all, it's sunny outside. So why not make one of those random, out-of-order, I-love-life kind of lists?

I love...
-barefeet on hardwood floors
-new clothes
-letting my hair air dry
-hearing how happy my sister sounds
-feeling missed and needed
-when people tell me that I look like my mom
-greek food, especially when I get to enjoy it with my dad.
-phone calls, just to chat
-nutella
-waking up and feeling rested
-having a wee bit more time, now that I'm not in classes
-just feeling genuinely happy and content with life.

image via deviantart

Fathers.

The restaurant where I work is located in a sort of sketchy part of town. Right next to a couple homeless shelters and a few bars.

Needless to say, it's not unusual for me to see a transient passed out on the sidewalk or a group of them outside the shelter smoking as I'm walking from my car.

Yesterday, I was thinking about fathers. And how it's very likely that many or most of these men are fathers, in some sense of the word. And even more, they have/had fathers.

Are their children somewhere, wondering where they are? Thinking about them, more than usual, on this day to honor fathers?

For some reason, it's hard for me to picture these men in any other role than the one they currently fill. I have to remind myself that once upon a time, they were babies. They were children. And teenagers. Some of them were probably devastatingly handsome or witty or talented, at one point in their lives.

But at some point, something went wrong. Whether by their own choices or by mental/physical/economic circumstances beyond their control. (I tend to be rather skeptical, and assume that poverty in this country is almost wholly the result of choices, not lack of opportunity. Although I believe that is true much of the time, I have to remind myself that it is not the only cause).

Few people expect their children to grow up and be homeless. It's just not how most people think.

But it happens.

It's hard to respect someone when you assume that their quality of life is due to drug addiction, or alcoholism.

Though we cannot help them out of the rut they may have gotten themselves into, and we should not condone such behavior, we can show compassion. Even if just in our minds. We can acknowledge them as human beings. And as citizens of this country, with the same rights we have.

I recently read the book, The Soloist, (I'm dying to see the movie). It's a true story. The story of a homeless man in Los Angeles, a former Juilliard string bassist, who struggles with schizophrenia. It's an incredible story. It doesn't have the typical Hollywood happy ending, but it is still a triumph. It's just, real.

It makes me wonder how many similar stories are waiting to be discovered, and recognized.

Anyway, this has grown into a pretty long jumble of thoughts, but really all I wanted to say was:

Happy Father's Day.

To my own dear old dad, and to all fathers. Wherever they are.

photo via deviantart