To blog or not to blog: the eight years later edition

Note: There are many reasons why I blog, and many more reasons why I don't blog. One of the reasons I do not blog is to publish a bunch of personal diary-like stories that a) are probably only of interest to me, b) would be better written in an email to those who might care, or c) fall into the too-much-information category. I've made exceptions before, and probably will again -- and while this post falls into the personal category, I like to think that situations a, b, or c do not apply.

I miss my dad. A lot. I always miss him, but more so on the anniversaries...and today happens to be the eight year anniversary of his death. And it still sucks. I'm happy he was mine, though, and I wish I could have known him longer.

For some undetectable reason, this year I'm thinking about the small things today. Small things like...

• he didn't laugh at me when I asked him if he shook Elvis's hand after the concert.
• he pretended not to know that I was going to play How Great Thou Art for him on the piano for Christmas one year, and he cried when I did.
• he only said "get it out" when I dyed my hair green the night before I was to play my violin in church on Palm Sunday.
  
• he hit my uncle Wayne with a golf ball one year, and responded the next year by making a welcome sign that said "Wayne II: the target returns"
• he simply said "wow" at big moments, and my brother and I knew how proud he was and how much he loved us.
  
• he always answered my "guess what!" exclamations by saying "Jeanne eats dry ramen." Always, since I was in 8th grade.
• he called me, all nervous and cute-like, from the jewelry store to discuss the mother's ring we were getting for Mom.
• he and I had a routine phone greeting. I would say "Hi Dad, it's me Kat!" and he would say "Hi Kat, it's me Dad!" and he knew something was up if I didn't start off the phone conversations that way.
  
• he sang Sixteen Tons a lot. And...kind of out of tune.
  
• he never stopped putting me on his lap, holding my head and saying "you don't feel better yet." seriously...I was 23 the last time he did that.
  

...and many many more. But those are just my memories...what are yours?