June 21, 2009
Roger Truesdale - firstname.lastname@example.org
"Let me tell you a secret, about a father''s love
A secret that my daddy said was just between us.
He said daddies don''t just love their children every now and then.
Its a love without end, amen, its a love without end, amen.
"A Father''s Love" by George Strait
These lyrics ring so true in the Truesdale household. Throughout the duration of this column you have heard many a story about the man behind the column''s three children -- also known as Number One Son, Number Two Son, and Third Favorite. "Strummin''" this week will take on a different perspective, to tell you about Number One Dad from the perspective of Third Favorite, his only daughter, Kady.
Roger Truesdale was born on July 6, 1950, to Mr. and Mrs. Burton Truesdale. I don''t have to tell you he was raised in the Delta, because his stories of the Delta are plenty. But what I would like to share with you is the type of father my dad has been to his three children, especially to me.
Dad has always been the most kind, loving, supportive father who has never failed to love me unconditionally no matter the circumstance -- an attribute I, to this day, know he attained from his father.
My dad is musically inclined to say the least. He has a plethora of instruments ranging from his collection of guitars -- be it steel, acoustic or electric -- to a large bass, a mandolin, a banjo and even a keyboard. Sometimes I think he considers these as his children.
When I was around 5 years old, Dad would play his fiddle (or violin) from time to time. I know he took much pride in his fiddle because it sat atop the highest shelf in our den. Also atop this shelf, some 15 feet high, was an assortment of educational books with pictures of birds, flags, and all the knowledge a little girl could ask for at that age. I asked Dad to read to me from one of these books and, of course, Dad said yes ... so I began to climb.
Lying perpendicular to these intellectual readings was the fiddle. Now, at the time I was as uncoordinated and vertically challenged as pre-schoolers come. But I had made the climb many times before this with no unfortunate incidents.
As you are anticipating, as I reached to slide my choice of book from the shelf and pull it out, the fiddle came crashing to the linoleum floor right before mine, Dad''s and God''s eyes. Dad took a long gasp for air and then shouted, "KADY!"
Oh, no. I''m dead. I''m so dead. I''m deader than dead. One of Dad''s most valuable, prized possessions just crashed to the floor.
You can tell from my presence in his column this week that I''m not dead. Nor did I get in too much trouble. My dad is the kind of person who realized almost instantly that I was just a child looking to gain a little knowledge. I think it was only 20 minutes after the trauma had occurred that I crawled in his lap and he read to me.
I have not been the easiest child to raise, to say the very least. I''ve met trouble dead on, guns blazing on too many occasions -- a few times with the principal in elementary school, an instance or two with unpaid traffic violations, and too many to count when I had spent too much money. (Sorry, Dad.)
I know that every father faces trials and troubles with raising their children, and God willing, they handle it with the grace, humility and love that my dad has. So this is to all of you dads who have been through the worst of it, those who think you''ve been through the worst of it, and those who have just begun.
Dad, thank you for always loving me no matter what mess I have gotten myself in. Thank you for always offering me your wisdom, for constantly telling me you love me, and for raising me with the morals and values that your dad taught you. I know Granddaddy Burt is proud of the father you are and for the kids that you have raised. I love you very much.
Roger owns Bayou Management, Inc. and is also a semi-pro guitar player.