Thanks for the blue eyes and Willie Nelson’s Blue Skies.
Thanks for making an early riser out of me so I never miss a sunrise or a flight.
Thanks for letting me listen to whatever I wanted on the radio without complaint or commentary. Even during awkward moments like Madonna’s Like a Virgin and my endurance-testing mixtapes featuring Malcolm McLaren’s six-minute Puccini reboot of Madame Butterfly. I thought you liked opera. You paid me back with Roger Whittaker, Glenn Miller, and Marty Robbins. Thank you for chaperoning me and my friends to see Cyndi Lauper’s 1984 show at the Summit and subsequently deciding I no longer needed adult supervision at concerts. Thank you for taking me to see the Rockets play at the Summit when they had The Dream.
Thanks for taking me and my brother to see films because they were good, regardless of rating: The Blues Brothers, The Great Santini, All That Jazz. Although Grizzly, a 1976 film about a bear on a murderous rampage explains why I have an aversion to camping.
Thanks for taking me and my brother to dim sum on Sundays and letting us order the chicken feet every single time just so we could play with them.
Thanks for buying the entire bag of caramel-pecan cluster turtles I was supposed sell for a school fundraiser but ate instead. In one sitting.
Thanks for still making sure I always have a full tank of gas. Please note, I no longer buy groceries, including beer, on my Chevron card.
Thanks for loving our bulldog, Carlyle, like a grand dog, and my husband like family. That is not necessarily in order of importance. But thanks for also being cool when Jason got arrested in front of you for selling Saints tickets to an undercover cop.
Thanks for acting as my personal weatherman, traffic reporter, and in the age of professional influencers, you are the only one who matters.
With gratitude. #IAmMyFathersDaughter