Well, St. Patrick’s Day is always a special day in my family. I tell people that I’m French born, but Irish raised, and that’s because 34 years ago today, I met my Dad, an Irish Catholic raised in The Bronx.
I was four years old, and my Mom and I had been invited to the home of a family friend to celebrate the holiday. You know how some memories get etched in your brain permanently, and when looking back with an adult perspective you understand why? Well, I remember with ultimate clarity, going to sit on my Mom’s lap. I remember being hot and sweaty, and wanting a drink. I remember finding her amongst the adults, sitting on the couch. I backed up to her legs and went to push myself up, as children do, using what I thought was her leg. However, the leg I used did not belong to Mom, as it turned out. It belonged to this six and a half foot tall stranger sitting next to her. I was surprised at how tall he was, and I remember looking at him startled once I realized that giant leg wasn’t Mom’s. I remember him smiling at me and saying, “How are you?” I was shy and embarrassed and turned away. Little did I know what was to come of that meeting.
That stranger entered my life as my stepfather six months later, and entered my heart shortly after that. I don’t know exactly when he became “Dad” but my life is what it is because he chose to marry “us.”
Thanks for the flowers Dad! I love you!
A Half Hour a Day 