Hopeless Romantic…

I am a hopeless romantic and I know exactly who I got it from.

DNA is an interesting thing. Even though I was not raised by my father, (in fact I spent very little time with him during my childhood) I say and do things that were exactly like him. It’s sort of funny really. And it was something he and I shared in the last few months of his life that amazed both of us.

My mother never said bad things about my dad even though they were divorced when I was very young however by not talking to me about him at all it sort of left me up to imagine in my mind what he was like. Not knowing, I imagined he was this larger than life kind of guy who could do anything. I imagined he was a gentle giant with a heart of gold and the strength of a mighty oak. I believed he could rescue me from all harm and would protect me if he ever had the chance. I believed he was kind and good and strong and I was so proud of him – even though I didn’t really know him.

I wasn’t too far off, well as far as this grown up little girl is concerned, I was exactly right. I’m a hopeless romantic and under his rough exterior so was he.

My dad once worked as a sheet metal worker at the Naval shipyard. When he was just a young man, with not much money as he went through the apprenticeship program, he fashioned a ring for my mother. It was made from a metal nut. He somehow molded it and brushed it into 2 small hearts – side by side and gave this to her. I still have it today – she kept it all these years. When I hold it in my hand I can feel the love and pride that he felt when he crafted it for her and I can still feel her love for him. Funny how something so small can seal the good memories to our hearts.

When I was 16, my dad gave me a watch. Not just any old watch. A very special watch. It was a beautiful gold watch in the shape of two hearts with diamonds around the face. I still remember what he said when I opened that little box. All those years apart – even though I wasn’t in his life – our hearts were as one.

Dad remarried to a woman who I came to love years later. She bridged the gap for me between who I thought my dad was and who he actually was. She never tried to be a “mother” to me – she knew that role was already filled. We did however, become great friends.

When she died (at a very young age) my dad was heartbroken. He purchased a slab of white marble to have a head stone made for her grave site. He then drew a pattern he wanted carved into the marble. He couldn’t find anyone willing to do it for fear of damaging this rather large and expensive beautiful piece of marble. Determined as he was, he found a mill up in the mountains who could show him how to carve the marble and then allow him to use their tools so he could do it himself.

And so he did. Two hearts cut out of the marble with her name engraved on it and his to be added later. White, big and beautiful. Even today as you ride by the cemetery you can see it stand out among all the other stones there.

Always two hearts… two hearts as one…
Romantic?

You think?… I know!