A day to celebrate one of life's hardest jobs

Every year, Father’s Day comes around reminding us to appreciate our dads. In all fairness, we should practice this every day, but in reality, it is so much easier to take people for granted than it is to be eternally grateful.

My own dad, James Nobles, is larger than life: a former Marine standing six feet four inches tall with a deep, projecting voice and a contagious laugh. As his only daughter, it has been my sole responsibility to repeatedly break his heart over the last 37 years. My brother, Adam, does his part too, but everyone knows that daughters are much better at this than sons.

My dad was the first person to tell me that I wasn’t living up to my full potential. I crushed his hopes every report card cycle after 2^nd grade. I think Dad knew I had a bad case of “the lazies” when it came to school and it must have driven him insane to watch me piddle away each day with no real goal. Keep in mind that I had perfected this process for at least 35 years!

I am haunted by this quality with my son. We once had a conversation about what he wanted to be when he grew up. He shot down each and every occupation that involved any additional education beginning with doctors and working our way to law enforcement and firefighters. He finally settled on being a crossing guard because “that looks easy” (his words, not mine).

Outside of my inattentiveness to scholastic achievement, I wasn’t a bad kid and only managed to be the recipient of 4 spankings in my childhood. I may have deserved a few more, but I always started crying as soon as I realized that I had disappointed my parents.

Picture it: big, watery brown eyes and a quivering chin. My own daughter does this to me and its effectiveness is amazing.

When I look at my brother and myself, I can’t help but see our dad’s imprint on every aspect of who we are. My sarcasm and horrible sense of humor are Dad’s along with my height and “mean face.” I’m pretty sure I have his feet too.

Much to the chagrin of the women in Dad’s life, his charm and charisma make him irresistible to the ladies. I remember going to dinner with him years ago and wanting to hide under the table because he was busy shamelessly flirting with the waitress!

I don’t think I take after him that way at all.

My dad’s presence is so deeply ingrained in me that, when I got married, I was a bit depressed about giving up my maiden name. It was like I gave up a piece of Dad and, consequently, it wasn’t an easy adjustment in my mind.

I don’t let the loss of my father’s surname keep me from thinking about Dad. Last week, I even bought my son a Pool Room hamburger in Frostproof just because I wanted him to know that they are his grandpa’s favorite.

Now, every ‘A’ I make in class, I think to myself, “This one’s for you, Dad.”

Sometimes, with dads, it is hard to express exactly how we feel about them, so this Father’s Day, I want to tell the world that I love my dad and thank him for all he is to me.

I also want to take this opportunity to formerly apologize for breaking that penny jar when I was 9. Sorry, Dad. Nine year olds aren’t real slick when it comes to sneaking a peek at their Christmas presents. Of course, closets aren’t the best hiding place either.

Modern luxuries in a rustic environment

Memorial weekend camping has become an annual tradition for our family. My in-laws started it about 8 years ago and we’ve tagged along for the last 4 years. The goal is to camp somewhere near the vicinity of Columbia County so we can go tubing down the ice-cold Ichetucknee spring-fed river on the Sunday before Memorial Day.

We headed into the weekend with my son’s recent diagnosis of strep throat. He didn’t want infection to get in the way of family entertainment so, after 3 full doses of Amoxicillin, he said he was feeling better. I could see that, if we didn’t go, he was ready to hurl himself into a deep abyss of depression.

We packed the Rav 4 beyond capacity bringing “necessities” such as laptops and extra pillows that did little more than take up space. We also packed my daughter’s toddler mattress which my husband wisely wedged between the 2 back seats, effectively creating a barrier that separated the children and significantly cut down on their sibling bickering. The silence was intoxicating and the 4 hour trip turned out to be rather peaceful and relatively free of annoyances.

This year, we camped at Otter Springs in Trenton, Florida. One of the perks of this campground is that, as its name implies, they have their own spring. I was proud of myself because I became fully submerged in the 70 degree spring even if it did take about 20 minutes for me to creep into the chilly water an inch at a time. The fact that I swam in any non-pool liquid that was deep over my head is a miracle in itself given my phobias associated with giant alligators and imaginary swamp monsters.

I’m not a big fan of rustic camping because I require access to real bathrooms with working toilets. Lucky for us, there were 2 bathroom facilities, but there were also a ton of female campers who seemed to have the same physical needs as I did. Even with timing challenges, a crowded ladies room is better than openly squatting in insect-laden woods.

Utilizing the nearby power outlet, my husband rigged a borrowed window air conditioner on top of our cooler to blow a cool 60 degree breeze into our tent. We weren’t an ideal representation of what is known as “roughing it.”

The highlight of the trip was tubing in the Ichetucknee. My son was solid on the road to recovery and chose to swim with his cousin. I tried swimming for a little while, but the slimy grass was creeping me out so, with a lot of squirming and wiggling, I hauled myself back up onto the tube.

Sunday evening was spent eating s’mores and chatting around the propane fire pit.

On Monday morning, my husband and I thought it would be fun to rent a canoe and take the kids down the creek for a little nature appreciation. Canoes sound like more fun than what they actually are. Because of their instability, they are a little dangerous, but the water level was pretty low so I was confident we could just stand up if we accidentally tipped our vessel.

The shallow water became our nemesis as we frequently bottomed out and had to use our oars to push rather than row. The kids became restless and started whining before my daughter finally erupted into one of her scream fits.

We only canoed for 20 minutes, but it seemed like forever. The five dollar rental fee was an inexpensive lesson learned.

Even though I smelled like an orangutan by Monday afternoon and my irritation levels were maxed out, the weekend was over too soon and, thanks to a phenomenon called “misery amnesia,” I’m already looking forward to next year.