THE CURVE

Because Facebook has become our own personal billboard, I let my friends and extended (mom's side - I would never let his own family find out via Facebook - had that done to me, no good) family know that my dad had passed with this simple post:

Daddy's words of wisdom:

"God didn't promise to cure my cancer, He promised to save me."

"Dammit, Leslie, you've got to watch the ball all the way into the glove!"

James Leon Vancil

10/26/32 – 8/25-14

One of my friends that I have known since my softball days commented that she could remember dad screaming that last one at me from the stands.  I am sure she (and anyone in a three block radius of the ball fields) CAN remember that.

Dad, I think, though he never said so outright, wanted boys.  He got girls.  Not to be slowed down, he raised his daughters to be strong, independent and self sufficient.  We all had to learn to change a tire and change our own oil before we could get our driver's licenses.  He let us suffer and figure it out.  We were not princesses, we were warriors.

Both of my parents coached softball at one point, and even at four or so, I was on the ball fields in a team jersey. 

When it was my turn to play, I was a pitcher, and up went the Ball jar lid nailed to the wooden fence, and the pitching distance was marked.  I had to hit that stupid jar lid a certain number of times every day.  My lack of super softball stardom was not going to be the result of lack of effort!

Dad and I also played catch waaaay more than I wanted to play catch.  If you know me, you know that what I am thinking of feeling is never a secret.  When I got tired of being in the front yard throwing a ball back and forth and got lazy, my father would intentionally throw a curveball at his baby girls' head or chest. 

And connect.

"Dammit, Leslie, you've got to watch the ball all the way into the glove!"

To a twelve year old girl, this is devastating.  To a forty something year old woman, this is wisdom. 

I am single.  I put myself through college.  I bought my own house without a dollar from either parent.  I am rarely frightened by life.  I change my own light fixtures, caulk my own tub, and am generally unflappable in stressful situations, and for this I thank my father.

I thanked him in spring, 2013 for hitting this little girl with curve balls.

He was, at that point, an 80 year old man recovering from a stroke, and he got teary eyed with a look of apology in his eyes.  

I quickly made sure he understood that I was serious - I really was THANKING him for not raising a princess waiting on or even remotely expecting a knight in shining armor. 

I look around at some of the delicate flowers that are my peers - those that weren't or haven't yet been tested by fire, those that lean on daddies and husbands, and though there is a thin layer of jealousy at what seems on the outside to be a soft existence, I am, at heart, thankful that my daddy got his girls dirty, and covered in oil, and bruised from curveballs - and prepared to face life's challenges on their own if they needed to.

I am my daddy's girl, and I will make him proud. 

I just wish the curveballs would stop for a minute.