Our lives are full and busy here at The White House. Shopping is reserved for Christmas Eve. I try to look at the bright side. Our options are completely limited by empty shelves therefore without options there is no decision turmoil. This brings you to my Christmas Eve Story....
I wound my way through frantic shoppers, their noise but a small hum in my ears, to the aisle of books. Specifically, books written about Alaska. My dear husband loves to read in his fleeting moment of free time and I wanted to find something of interest from our home. My eyes fell upon "Eighteen Wheels: North to Alaska". Perfect. He is a jack of all trades as I have mentioned before, and he has some trucking stories of his own to tell. My hands caressed the cover and the feel of the new pages brought excitement. I wondered if there would be a story of someone I'd heard of. I flipped through the pages until I landed in the appendix of old time truckers. There, nestled near the end, was his name. I felt it before I knew that it would be there. Bill Simmons. A great man who trucked from Great Falls, Montana to The Last Frontier of Alaska way back before anyone should. He was my dad.
In that moment of knowing, surprise, pride and then sadness the tears flowed. In the middle of the hustle of shoppers and the chaos Christmas can bring, I stood, alone, in an aisle of Alaskan books softly crying for a man I miss so dearly.
My dad passed away at 3:15am Christmas morning of 1993. There is not a day - nor a Christmas - that I don't miss him with every bit of my heart. Dad, thank you for finding me in the sea of shoppers to let me know you are still here with me.
I love you.