There are very few people on this planet that I can confidently say helped create the absolute feral, sarcastic, hard-headed menace to society that I am today.
My mother likes to think she raised me right.
Bless her heart.
But let’s be honest…
She has spent the last 40 years trying to undo what Paul Anthony Patton accidentally programmed directly into my DNA.
Spoiler alert…
She lost.
Ladies and gentlemen…
Meet my father.
If you haven’t yet, congratulations. You’re about to understand me a whole lot better.
If you HAVE met him…
Well…
This story probably isn’t going to surprise you one damn bit.
Paul Anthony Patton.
Professional Old Fart.
Retired truck driver.
Full-time smartass.
Part-time instigator.
And quite possibly one of the most ornery human beings God has ever unleashed upon this Earth.
Now before anyone gets offended on his behalf…
HE would be offended if I DIDN’T call him ornery.
It’s one of his greatest accomplishments.
According to my Aunt Sue, he was a naughty little brat as a kid.
According to my Aunt Pat, somewhere around middle school he evolved into a full-blown naughty little shit.
Honestly…
I don’t think he ever outgrew it.
He just got wrinkles.
Lower back pain.
Questionable knees.
Dad noises every time he stands up.
The attitude, however?
Factory original.
Zero miles.
Never serviced.
And apparently…
Hereditary.
Because I am, without question, the female version of my father.
Not just because we’re both sarcastic.
Not just because we think arguing is an Olympic sport.
Not just because if someone tells either one of us, “You can’t…”
We immediately make it our life’s mission to prove them catastrophically wrong.
No.
I literally LOOK like the man.
I’ve got his build.
His arms.
His hands.
Sometimes I’ll catch myself looking down and have to do a double take because I swear to God…
I’m looking at my dad’s hands.
And every single time…
My heart does this weird little thing.
It’s happy…
And broken…
At exactly the same time.
Because one day…
Those hands won’t be here anymore.
But mine will.
I’ll still carry a little piece of him around every day.
That’s one hell of a realization.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
Comforting.
Heartbreaking.
All at once.
Growing up, my dad drove truck.
Not once in a while.
Not seasonally.
My ENTIRE childhood.
That man hauled everything under the sun across this country while I logged more miles riding around in the sleeper of a semi than most people ever will.
Little Heather?
She bitched.
Constantly.
“I wanna go hoooommmmeeeee!”
“I’m booooorrrrreeeeddd!”
“How many more hours?”
“Are we there yet?”
“Why don’t we ever stop and SEE stuff?!”
You know…
Because apparently I thought Dad was out there hauling freight for funsies instead of, I don’t know…
WORKING.
Teenage Heather?
She somehow hated it even more.
Looking back…
Someone should’ve lovingly told little Heather to shut the hell up…
And maybe punched teenage Heather square in the mouth.
Because adult Heather?
Adult Heather would trade just about anything for one more ride.
One more sunrise through that windshield.
One more truck stop breakfast that somehow tasted better than a five-star restaurant.
One more cup of coffee poured out of that ancient green Stanley thermos.
One more random conversation about absolutely nothing.
One more day riding shotgun.
Even if I spent the whole trip complaining that we never stopped to sightsee.
Funny how growing up works.
You spend your childhood begging time to hurry up…
Then spend the rest of your life begging it to slow the hell down.
Being a truck driver meant he missed things.
Concerts.
School plays.
Programs.
Random Tuesday school assemblies where thirty-seven children screamed songs completely off-key while parents pretended they were watching Broadway.
There were plenty of times he physically couldn’t be there.
But here’s something I never questioned.
Not once.
Whether he loved me.
Because he always called.
Before.
After.
He wanted to know how everything went.
He wanted every detail.
He wanted to hear about my day.
He never let distance make me feel forgotten.
That’s something I’ve appreciated more with every birthday.
Love isn’t always measured by where someone is standing.
Sometimes it’s measured by how hard they work to stay connected when life keeps pulling them away.
And my dad…
He mastered that.
Now let’s discuss genetics.
Specifically…
The personality defects this man generously donated to me.
Our sense of humor?
Identical.
Music?
Same.
TV shows?
Same.
Comedians?
Same.
Our favorite family pastime?
Annoying my mother until she threatens bodily harm.
Honestly…
It’s our love language.
Neither one of us likes being told what to do.
Neither one of us enjoys admitting we’re wrong.
And once we’ve committed to an argument…
There is absolutely no turning back.
Even if halfway through we realize the other person is right.
Too late.
We’ve already invested.
We’re finishing this out of pure spite.
Tell either one of us…
“You can’t.”
Congratulations.
You’ve activated our final form.
We’ll do it.
We’ll overdo it.
We’ll probably improve it.
Then we’ll make damn sure you know we did it.
With a smug little grin.
I spent YEARS thinking I was my own unique flavor of stubborn.
Nope.
Turns out I’m just Paul Patton with longer hair…
A better skincare routine…
And significantly perkier boobs.
(Well…
Maybe just the right one.
His left one has me beat…
But that was surgically enhanced.)
Sorry, Dad.
Science.
Now everybody knows about your fancy left boob.
Be prepared.
People are absolutely going to ask to see it.
The older I get…
The more I understand him.
The more I realize parenting isn’t usually the big speeches.
It’s the little things.
Working when you’re exhausted.
Providing when nobody notices.
Showing up however you can.
Doing what needs to be done because that’s what dads do.
He never had to tell me how to work hard.
I watched him.
He never had to explain loyalty.
He lived it.
He never had to lecture me that family comes first.
I saw it.
Every single day.
That’s the funny thing about dads.
When you’re little…
You think they’re just going to work.
When you’re older…
You realize they were carrying the weight of the entire family on their shoulders…
And somehow making sure you never felt how heavy it actually was.
That’s a different kind of love.
A quiet love.
A dependable love.
The kind that doesn’t need applause.
My dad isn’t perfect.
Hell…
He’d probably interrupt me right here and tell me to quit making such a big damn deal out of him.
Then he’d yell…
“Marcella! I NEED you to make me some coffee!”
Followed immediately by…
“Heather…your mother hasn’t fed me in about six days.”
Meanwhile Mom would be standing there holding the dinner she literally just made him.
Because dramatic.
Then he’d complain about my coffee.
“What is this frou frou shit?”
“Why would anyone pay ten dollars for ONE cup of coffee?”
“I can buy a can of Folgers and make HUNDREDS of cups.”
“And it actually tastes GOOD.”
“Y’all have lost your damn minds.”
Yeah…
Yeah…
Yeah, Dad.
Rolls eyes.
But if somebody handed me a magical reset button and said…
“You get to pick your parents all over again.”
I wouldn’t hesitate.
Not even for a second.
I’d choose him.
Every.
Single.
Time.
I’d choose every truck ride.
Every sarcastic comment.
Every argument.
Every laugh.
Every lesson.
Every mile.
Because when people meet me…
Whether they realize it or not…
They’re meeting a little bit of Paul Anthony Patton.
And honestly…
I hope I keep becoming more like him.
We are basically Pokémon.
Dad evolved into Professional Old Fart.
I’m currently evolving into Dad.
And Lily…
God help us all…
She’s evolving into me.
This family tree isn’t branching anymore.
It’s just cloning itself.
Sorry, Mom.
You truly never stood a chance.
You thought you were raising Heather Joleen.
What you actually got…
Was Paul Anthony Patton 2.0.
Just with better hair.
Better coffee.
One better boob.
And enough expensive coffee beans in the pantry to make my father clutch his Folgers can and mutter about “kids these days.”
I love you, Dad.
Thanks for teaching me how to work hard.
How to laugh.
How to be stubborn enough to survive just about anything life throws at me.
And thanks for accidentally making me exactly who I am.
Even if Mom has spent four decades trying to reverse-engineer your influence.
Love you, Old Fart.
Happy to be your daughter.
Always.
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