“Why does that sound like a Johnny Cash song?” Dad teases at the adults.
“Santa is gonna bring him the best Christmas ever because we both asked!” his youngest granddaughter theatrically proclaims, flinging crumbs left and right.
Dad slowly nods in comprehension and recalling of the individual.
Of course, he knows. I tell him almost everything. Especially after the Archer fiasco. You remember how hurt he was I wasn’t more open. And looking back on it now…I know I should’ve been. If anyone would’ve been understanding about the whole thing from the beginning, it would’ve been him. Plus…I don’t know…Perhaps he could’ve helped more? Gotten Archer a job faster? Taken him off Mrs. Prescott’s radar sooner? I try not to think of the what ifs, but sometimes it’s hard. Even after all these years.
“Sounds like Santa has his work cut out for him,” Dad acknowledges, eyes drifting up to Archer who is placing bowls of fruit beside each of our daughters’ plates.
My husband drops his gaze momentarily to the other man in the room. “Just because they ask for it, doesn’t mean that’s what they’re going to get.”
“True.”
“Yeah, but that’s the only thing I asked for,” Henz rationalizes on a huge bite of her muffin, “mearfore, Santa has to bring it.”
Like the devil’s advocate he enjoys being with his grandchildren he tips his head towards her. “Fair.”
Archer twitches a glare at his in-law pushing me to suggest, “Dad, how about we go ahead and get going before we’re tempted to settle for muffins instead of the big as your butt breakfast burrito, I know you have your heart set on.”
His expression shifts into a smug one. “You typically only want that when you’ve had a…busy morning.”
Redness seeps into my cheeks despite doing my best to stop it.
“How about Gordon after Gordon Parks if it’s a boy?” Dad suggests at the same time he rises to his feet. “Yes, he directed Shaft, but he also did amazing work in photojournalism regarding the civil rights movement. I think it would be a strong choice.”
Rainne stops midbite to question, “If what’s a boy?”
“Nononono,” I mutter on a quick headshake. “We are so not having that conversation with them.”
Dad’s grin grows unbearably hopeful. “But-”
“But nothing.” A finger point swiftly follows. “Door. Now.”
He lightly laughs, kisses each of the girls goodbye, and shoots an impish smirk my husband’s direction.
Archer’s own expression transposes into a contemplative one as though now pondering the idea again prompting a second headshake before my own round of goodbyes to my family.
Love my dad from the front of the book to the back; however, I don’t love his meddling in this chapter of my life.
Post grabbing my gear from upstairs and his from his vehicle, the two of us load into my SUV for our outing. During our first stop, I sweetly scold him on bringing the subject up in front of the kids prior to confessing my uncertainty about having more. To no surprise, he warmly reminds me that he supports whatever decision Archer and I come to and that he was only semi-serious about name suggestions.
Breakfast at Burrito Lab is long and laughter filled. We bullshit about television shows we’re binging, novels I think he should be reading, how the sales from my first three books are going, and ends with discussing his latest dropped hobby of whittling.
The man has gone through more hobbies in the past four years than some people do in their entire lifetimes. I, however, think my Christmas gift will be the solution to that problem as well as ease some of the strain my parents are having due to the sense of purposelessness, I can tell Dad’s suffering with.
Heading to The Range at Highland, the shooting range right on the outskirts of the city, happens next. An odd mixture of oldies R&B and punk rock flow through the speaker, yet Dad does what he’s always done when it’s come to music. He happily bobs along. Searches for some part of it to enjoy.
At the range, we opt for an outside session, both a bit anxious to get some cold, fresh air while shooting off rounds. We gear up in tandem with our custom matching ear protectors, which were a gift I gave him last year and are one he never hesitates to gush about loving. He unloads his rifle excited to show off his latest purchase as much as he is to finally fire it. Admiring everything about his execution from his poised firing stance to impressive reloading time is naturally done. The man is almost a flawless machine when it comes to this particular weaponry, and those footsteps are ones I’ve tried my whole life to follow.
Allowing me the opportunity to engage in a round with the rifle catches me slightly off guard. Dad’s never been one to hoard his guns, but the thing is brand new – like less than two weeks old. He typically waits a few runs – or more accurately a few months – before letting me give it a go.
Excited by the chance, I don’t hesitate to try the Smith & Wesson AR and gingerly transfer the gun from his possession to mine. Precisely positioning the pristine piece of machinery requires more effort than usual – courtesy of it being much bigger than a pistol – and my father remains patient with me through the process. The first pull of the trigger delivers much more recoil than I’m accustomed to; however, I don’t panic.
I don’t abandon the new challenge.
I merely reevaluate my approach and try again.
Believe it or not, growing up, trips to the range often doubled as moments to give me life lessons like that. Or to remind me that he had the answer for any man who broke my heart. That really wasn’t an issue as you know but it still makes me giggle that he had a ‘plan’.
Going through an entire magazine happens in what feels like the blink of an eye, yet my inaccuracy with it reveals just how foreign rifle shooting is for me.
Dad and I switch places once more for him to go again except this time he takes various opportunities to explain what I was doing wrong.
How I can do better.
Recommendations for improving my precision.
All the loving lecturing has me grinning from ear to ear knowing that my Christmas gift is absolutely the right one.
After going a couple more rounds with his rifle, we head over to the outdoor pistol range to unload there as well. Time passes surprisingly fast causing us to fly past lunch territory into almost happy hour, something he is more than thrilled to take advantage of.
Just a few feet from the entrance, I abruptly stop and encourage us to take a detour. “Let’s stop by Tanya’s office. I wanna wish her happy holidays since we won’t see her again before the new year.”
Dad nods in agreement and follows me down the small hallway where the owner’s office is located. One knock receives us entry; however, the two of us walk in cautiously, still overly concerned about interrupting her day.