I had a wicked sweet tooth, and I discovered he did, too, when I noticed he never passed up a cookie or a donut at events.
When the waitress came by to take our ice cream orders, I almost fell out of the booth when he ordered a chocolate soda with chocolate ice cream! That had always been my drink! My friends used to make fun of me for my love of this retro bubbly concoction from another era, but I loved it and would order it at any old fashion ice cream parlor.
“I’ll have the same thing,” I said beaming. I looked at him and laughed. “Oh my gosh, that’s so weird, that’s what I always order. Maybe there’s a chocolate gene?”
“You have great taste,” he said smiling as he slurped down the soda, watching me do the same.
I was always scanning him for similarities, wondering quietly which parts of me came from him. But this was so obvious; we were instantly bonded over a love for chocolate.
We saw our reflections in this simple joy of sharing ice cream together. Of course, the helicopter was amazingly fun, but there was incredible comfort in the daily dose of love I had been craving for so long.
It was another stitch in the tapestry of our new father-daughter relationship, and with each special moment, we were weaving another connection.
As the days went on, I could tell my father really liked having me around. The troopers who drove him around would say things like, “He lights up when he’s around you,” and “Since you’ve been here, he’s easier to get along with. Good thing you’re a girl!”
Huh…Daddy Warbucks was softening.
Marjorie’s accident made it difficult for her to attend so many events, so my father appointed me as his standing date, and as we grew closer, he started to make my roles more public.
“Kara, how would you like to march with me in the 4 th of July parade in Bristol? It’s world famous.”
“That sounds amazing! I would love it!” It didn’t matter that it was world famous—I was spending time with my father, and that was enough for me.
When the day came, I thought he would love the pleated navy skirt with white polka dots and a red stripe along the bottom. I paired it with a white sleeveless blouse. But I messed up on the shoes. I had never marched in a parade before, so I didn’t realize my new white heels would kill me. The route was a mile long, and I could feel blisters first, then bleeding as the leather shoes pooled with sweat from the intense heat. I tried to keep smiling as I waved to the thousands of people, aware that all eyes were on Dad and me…but, oh, how my feet screamed in pain.
A man made me forget about the pain for a moment when he ran out from the crowd, got on one knee in front of me, and kissed my hand. He told a reporter he made it a point to try and kiss the hand of every elected official. “But Kara isn’t an elected official,” the reporter said.
“No, but she should be.” Ha!
Dad beamed while reaching out for my hand and held it as we continued to march. No words were spoken, but I will always remember that this was first time he had held my hand for so long. Despite our sweaty palms, I didn’t want to let go. He made me feel like Daddy’s little girl.
It wasn’t easy cramming a whole childhood into one summer, and as my father’s and my experiences together wove golden threads in our tapestry, I wanted to make sure it was strong enough so it wouldn’t unravel when I went off to college. We didn’t have a lifetime of memories, but we were trying to make each day memorable.
My eighteenth birthday would be coming in two weeks, on July 16 th , and I wondered if my father would think to make it special, like the 4 th of July parade.
Mom had already started calling his secretary to make sure she put it on the calendar, so my father wouldn’t forget.
“I wish I could be there with you, honey.”
“I know, Mom, but we can celebrate when I get home.” I felt the familiar grumble of guilt. I could tell she was sad to
When the waitress came by to take our ice cream orders, I almost fell out of the booth when he ordered a chocolate soda with chocolate ice cream! That had always been my drink! My friends used to make fun of me for my love of this retro bubbly concoction from another era, but I loved it and would order it at any old fashion ice cream parlor.
“I’ll have the same thing,” I said beaming. I looked at him and laughed. “Oh my gosh, that’s so weird, that’s what I always order. Maybe there’s a chocolate gene?”
“You have great taste,” he said smiling as he slurped down the soda, watching me do the same.
I was always scanning him for similarities, wondering quietly which parts of me came from him. But this was so obvious; we were instantly bonded over a love for chocolate.
We saw our reflections in this simple joy of sharing ice cream together. Of course, the helicopter was amazingly fun, but there was incredible comfort in the daily dose of love I had been craving for so long.
It was another stitch in the tapestry of our new father-daughter relationship, and with each special moment, we were weaving another connection.
As the days went on, I could tell my father really liked having me around. The troopers who drove him around would say things like, “He lights up when he’s around you,” and “Since you’ve been here, he’s easier to get along with. Good thing you’re a girl!”
Huh…Daddy Warbucks was softening.
Marjorie’s accident made it difficult for her to attend so many events, so my father appointed me as his standing date, and as we grew closer, he started to make my roles more public.
“Kara, how would you like to march with me in the 4 th of July parade in Bristol? It’s world famous.”
“That sounds amazing! I would love it!” It didn’t matter that it was world famous—I was spending time with my father, and that was enough for me.
When the day came, I thought he would love the pleated navy skirt with white polka dots and a red stripe along the bottom. I paired it with a white sleeveless blouse. But I messed up on the shoes. I had never marched in a parade before, so I didn’t realize my new white heels would kill me. The route was a mile long, and I could feel blisters first, then bleeding as the leather shoes pooled with sweat from the intense heat. I tried to keep smiling as I waved to the thousands of people, aware that all eyes were on Dad and me…but, oh, how my feet screamed in pain.
A man made me forget about the pain for a moment when he ran out from the crowd, got on one knee in front of me, and kissed my hand. He told a reporter he made it a point to try and kiss the hand of every elected official. “But Kara isn’t an elected official,” the reporter said.
“No, but she should be.” Ha!
Dad beamed while reaching out for my hand and held it as we continued to march. No words were spoken, but I will always remember that this was first time he had held my hand for so long. Despite our sweaty palms, I didn’t want to let go. He made me feel like Daddy’s little girl.
It wasn’t easy cramming a whole childhood into one summer, and as my father’s and my experiences together wove golden threads in our tapestry, I wanted to make sure it was strong enough so it wouldn’t unravel when I went off to college. We didn’t have a lifetime of memories, but we were trying to make each day memorable.
My eighteenth birthday would be coming in two weeks, on July 16 th , and I wondered if my father would think to make it special, like the 4 th of July parade.
Mom had already started calling his secretary to make sure she put it on the calendar, so my father wouldn’t forget.
“I wish I could be there with you, honey.”
“I know, Mom, but we can celebrate when I get home.” I felt the familiar grumble of guilt. I could tell she was sad to
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