EDITOR’S NOTE: For reasons of full disclosure, the story that follows is from my daughter, Amanda. That’s us, above, during a trail run when she was a junior in college. Her story was unsolicited. No, really. I was going to ask her and my son to write guest posts, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. She dashed it off while in the midst of getting her second college degree. I have no idea where she found the time to do this. One of the key parts of the story has to do with rescuing amphibians on country roads at night in the rain in the spring—this is totally legit, and it’s called Big Night, and it happens all across the northeastern US. You can find our more by clicking this link to the local organization that helped us learn all about it. And even though Amanda has been away from home for the last four Big Nights, I still go out, for old time’s sake…and just because it’s really cool. The best thing about my daughter’s story (although I could be a bit biased) is that she somehow credits me with helping her become a confident and competent adult by burying candy in the yard. Hmm, all along I thought I was just being her dad. Can it really be that simple?

By Amanda Lewis

From a very young age, I remember playing alongside my father; he was always working hard. He was tilling for the new garden, helping my brother build some contraption, cleaning out the old shed, building me a playground, re-doing the green house for mom etc. I remember him always covered in wood shavings from sawing things and he always smelled like damp dirt. He would constantly be storing a pencil behind his ear, measuring something, losing his pencil, muttering about the measurements, taking his narrowly-molded baseball cap off [see photo above], wiping his hands on his jeans, getting frustrated about losing his pencil, putting his hat back on his head, and finding said pencil right where he had left it—behind his ear. This may sound like any typical hard-working father, constantly on the go while his daughter watches, idly playing nearby and seemingly bored. But let me tell you how my dad was different.

My dad wouldn’t just work hard, he took breaks hard too. In the middle of building me my “castle” [a big, complicated playground gymnasium thing] he would take breaks to take me fishing. And by taking me fishing I mean he fished, let me haphazardly cast, and hold the fish after he took it off the hook. He also let me take a couple home so I could swim with them in my kiddie pool. (Don’t ask what happened to them. I guess swimming in the mud caused from the overflow was not their forté). There were many days he would take me down to the creek so I could wade in and try to catch “swimmer bugs,” those weird bugs that seem to float and swim on top of the water at the same time.

One day, after handing my dad screws and nails while he worked on the greenhouse (I could be remembering this wrong, I was probably about five) he asked me for help with a couple of flower beds in the front near the driveway. I remember looking at his hands covered in black soil with black lines in the creases and under his nails and then looking at my smaller ones to see a matching set. He went into the house and came back with a bag of jelly beans. He said we were planting “magic jelly beans.” I remember just wanting to eat them, but he told me if I was patient, my hard work would pay off. So we planted the “beans.” The next morning I woke up and he asked if I had checked on the flower beds, because something might have grown. I raced outside to check, hair sticking up in all different directions, barefoot in my Little Mermaid pajamas. And what do you know; our “magic jelly beans” has sprouted—into HUGE lollipops! It was magical.

Fast-forward seven years. I am twelve, and despite being a middle school girl, I still enjoy playing with snakes and frogs. There was an ad in the paper about an “annual amphibian migration” followed by “how you can help.” My dad thought it sounded “Wicked cool!” so “We have to go!” We went to the volunteer meeting, where we were told what conditions were needed for this migration, how to help the salamanders and frogs cross the road to get to their mating grounds, and how to handle them properly. My dad, a friend, and I were so psyched! My mother thought we were all crazy. Then finally the night came—perfect conditions (frost out of the ground above 55 degrees, raining, sometime roughly around April). We set off with our flashlights, driving slow, squinting hard, hopping out at every possible sighting (even if it was only a leaf), finding “whopping” [large] spotted salamanders, and measuring the really big ones. This continued the next year (with another friend and her adventurous father manning the tape measure), and then continued just the two of us all through high school. The first year I was a freshman in college my dad still went out, partly for tradition’s sake, partly to beat the “whopping spotter record” from last year, and partly because I know he missed me. I kept getting picture messages on my phone, making me wish I was there to see the “whoppers” he had recorded this year. I showed some friends, having to explain our “tradition.” They thought the whole thing was rather weird. I just scoffed, rolled my eyes, and said, “You just don’t get it.” And they didn’t; they still don’t.

My dad has been many things. He has been my father (in my opinion, the best father in the whole wide world), a father to many of my friends, my teacher, my spiritual adviser, my biggest fan, and my role model for my future husband (As you can imagine this weeded out a large number of prospects. I now have extremely high standards because I was raised knowing I deserved only the best. I know, I sound like an uppity snot, but hey, blame him, not me). But among all these roles my dad has played, my dad has always been, and will always be, my best friend—my partner in crime. It’s nice knowing that if mom is going to scold me, I won’t be the only one getting scolded (usually).

So thanks dad, for always taking time out of your busy day for me, for always taking care of me. Thanks for planting those “beans” with me when I was still very small, so they could sprout and take root so I can now stand on my own, and enjoy the “lollipops” I’ve worked so hard for. And thanks for not only steering me towards an amazing guy, but also being there for that amazing guy once I found him. I love you so much. P.S. I know, I know—there’s probably a whole bunch of misplaced commas, and it’s over 800 words, but at least you taught me how to use semi-colons and em dashes. Deal with it!