Thank You.

I want to use today's post to say thank you.

Thank you to my dad, who put up with crappy roads, rude customers, bad tippers, dark rainy nights, and obnoxious co-workers delivering pizza for many years to make a home for us; sometimes he would take me along, and I'd sit in the warm car, reading while he was fetching or delivering pizzas, listening to music and talking. He showed me hard work, sacrificing for your family, making the best of a bad situation, and pride in your job, no matter how shitty.

My dad would pick me up after school and take me to nature paths, and almost never let me sit in the car and read like I wanted. At the very least, he'd require me to walk down to the stream or up to the top and find a rock there to read on, and more often than not I ended up liking it (although try getting me to admit it!). He showed me the quiet and noise and peace and beauty of nature, that it was worth getting out of the damned car, no matter how comfy.

Neither last nor least, my dad tried to show me photography. He showed me the camera, and tried to tell and show me how it worked. This was in the muddle of my teenage years (no, that's not a typo), and I couldn't even be gracious about it. I didn't pretend to like it, and when he finally asked me if I cared, I told him honestly: no. I remember that day, that moment, and I've felt guilty ever since. I don't know if I've ever apologized for it, but I'll do it now, on the internet, and I'll say it again when next we meet: Dad, I'm sorry I hurt you and that I was such a fucking teenager about it.

Because even without the training you tried to give me, I have fallen in love with photography, to the point where it's What I Want To Do. I fought it for so long, out of stubbornness and a stupid pride, the kind that children have just so their parents can't be right. Well, I'm saying it now, on the internet, and I'll say it again in person when next we meet: you were right, Dad. You were always right, and I will always credit you for this passion of mine.

Thank you to my stepfather, David, who came into my life and became a part of it when he didn't have to. You taught me how to ride a bike (twice, I think), you helped me with my schoolwork, made sure I did my chores and helped with the prep for the parties.

And what parties! Scavenger hunts across the whole backyard, riddles and mysteries, cavemen and kings and snooty French waiters, wizards and gorillas and clowns and traps and towers. My friends still talk about those parties; a few still have the styrofoam weapons you fashioned for them. You never let me just sit and let the party be made up and done for me, and you never let the party be a boring one. You taught me about doing your fair share, and about having fun.

Thank you for trying to teach me about cooking, then and now. I've never been as resistant to it as I was to photography, but I've never had an easy time making it stick, either. Still, the times I've spent in a kitchen with you, talking about life, about the science of what we were cooking, about everything, are counted among my best memories.

Thank you, to my father and my stepfather, to all my parents, for making me who I am, for all the lessons you taught me, whether I learned them willingly or not. Thank you for your efforts, for your support, for your love, all of it unconditional. I love you all so very, very much.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.