Free is a very good price

When I was a kid, there was this retailer in town named Tom Peterson. Early in his career, Tom would run late night commercials on Portland Wrestling. These were really poorly produced commercials, starring non other than Tom himself hawking his low priced merchandise.

He used to sell the cheapest brands on the planet, most I can't even remember except Xonix. They were an electronics manufacturer from nation unknown. You could get a stereo with everything for like $100 and a free gift. Tom's motto on those late nights was "free, is a very good price." Yeah it is, if you don't mind a free piece of shit. Hey, sign me up for some of that free shit, I'm on board.

The reason I mention this, and why this is the title of my blog, which will actually, kinda be, a photography post, is that it seems that most folks like my work, but they want it for, yeah, you guessed it, for free. Now when I was first starting out, I didn't mind giving up some of my work for free. When you first start any endeavor, especially one like photography, giving away your work at least gets your name out there. People who like your work will theoretically tell other people and therefor you may get some paying work.

Well, two years into this I'm getting paid gigs. Not frequently, but I'm starting to get some work. Unfortunately, for every one person or place that's willing to pay me, there is another who doesn't. Now I can appreciate not wanting to pay for something you place no value on, or something that is so ridiculously priced that you balk. Hey, I liked Napster too. But I'm trying to make a fucking living.

You don't need to sell me on the economy and how bad things are, I'm a byproduct of the thieves who ruined this country and should be in jail, but that's another blog and I don't have an answer anyway. And all the while I do my due diligence and send out three resumes a week so I can freeload off the government teat for $392 a week. Tell ya what, go make 60k a year, go on unemployment, and then tell me I'm on vacation.

Anyway, I know people are struggling, I know people are looking for a good deal. But I have to tell you all something. I will work for trade. If the trade interests me, and I can use it to feed my family, or put me up in a hotel, I'm down with that. But I'm not working for free. Let me type it slower, I'M NOT WORKING FOR FREE. I don't mind helping a struggling band, or sharing some shots on facebook for their use. But if anybody wants some shots to use professionally, than I would like to get paid.

I'm sure there are some hard working bands willing to work for free. I know photographers who will work for free. Well after awhile, all you end up doing is hurting the people who take this seriously, are trying to pay a mortgage or feed their kids. You working for free brings the price down for everybody. Whoever you are, do it for awhile, then put your foot down. This is your work, you own it. It's only fair that if somebody wants to use it, they should pay for it  in some way.

Look, I'm never going to get rich doing this. Everyone with a digital camera thinks they're a professional photographer. The appreciation for the art is at an all time low. People with iPhones take nice pictures, they don't take great pictures, sorry. Try one in a dark club sometime and get back to me if you think that's the case. All I'm trying to do, is provide something that I think I'm pretty good at, that you might find valuable. I'll never say I'm the greatest this, or the greatest that. Photography, writing, whatever, is a lifelong learning process and I  still have a long way to go.

There used to be a saying and maybe it's still used today, "cash, grass, or ass, nobody rides for free."
Please keep that in mind next time you ask me to just give you something I worked hard to produce.

Bikes, Cars, Bars, Guitars, and Cigars

What do they have in common? I don't know. It just sounded like a good title for a blog since I haven't written one since my birthday last month. I guess if I really had to think about it, the title of today's blog would have to do with things I've either done, ridden in or on, listened too, listened in, or smoked, in no particular order.

I ride my bike when the spirit moves me to do so. I got in good enough shape that when Katie and I went to Portland to do our yearly ride in the Providence Bridge Pedal, that I could do the 37 miles relatively easily and handle all the climbs. While the course is closed for the most part you do have to deal with cars on occasion. The worst part of the ride is the other 17,999 cyclists that are vying for the same piece of blacktop that you are. The Bridge Walk could be another name for this event as in places there is just no room to ride. When there is room you have to be careful for the liesurely riders who are out for a Sunday spin and are completely oblivious to you and could care less when they abruptly move in one direction or another messing up your line, and in turn the lines of the riders behind you. I'm surprised there aren't more 'domino' type crashes in this thing.

For a brief moment while riding across the Hawthorne Bridge I did for a moment think I was going down. They place 4 x 8 sheets of plywood across one lane of the brides to cover the metal grate that is the surface of the bridge. The stagger the panels and there is always a seam somewhere. I found one and my front tire went right into it. Fighting it get out the bike and I lurched to the right. I could feel it coming, and all I could think of is 'fuck this is going to hurt.' Not only did I think I was going down, I thought for sure I'd get run over by about seven bikes. For whatever reason, I pulled out of it and kept on going. Man, was I lucky.

The ride was on Sunday. Before that we had managed to see our friend Lloyd Jones play at a small bar in Northeast Portland called The Old Halibut. Small little place that had replicas of Dean, Frank, and Sammy, in the corner of the bar where the band plays. I thought they might break out into 'You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You,' but alas, they just sat there.

Lloyd is a longtime Portland bluesman whose history goes back to when I was just a kid and I heard his band 'Brown Sugar,' play at my grade school gym when I was 12 years old. This band had Lloyd, Jim Mesi, the late Paul DeLay, and a guy to be traded later. Sorry dude, to lazy to look up your name. Anyway, these guys were great. Lloyd I think played drums. A friend of mine challenged him to play 'Wipeout' which I think he declined.

No stop to Portland is complete until I've stopped in at Rich's Cigar shop on 8th and Alder in downtown. Best cigar shop in the city. Picked up a couple of Padron 5000's and I was good to go. Only problem is you can't smoke anywhere in communist Portland except Kell's Iris pub, also in downtown. Kell's has a smoking area downstairs which is part bar, part dungeon, but it works. Great place Kell's. Went there for an Irish breakfast after the Sunday ride.

So there you have it. I rode a bike. Drove in and negotiated not getting hit by a car, went to a bar and listened to some guitars, and later went to another bar and smoked a cigar. In between, we went and had sushi for dinner, but it didn't rhyme so it wasn't part of the title.

The view from the right side of the middle of the road.

The middle of the road,
Is trying to find me.
I'm standing in the middle of life with my pains behind me.
But, I got a smile
For everyone I meet.
Long as you don't try dragging my bay,
Or dropping a bomb on my street.
Come on baby,
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road, yeah.
In the middle of the road,
You see the darnest things.
Like fat cats driving around in jeeps through the city,
Wearing big diamond rings and silk suits.
Past corrugated tin shacks holed up with kids and
Man I don't mean a Hampstead nursery.
But when you own a big chunk of the bloody third world,
The babies just come with the scenery.
Come on baby,
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road, yeah.
The middle of the road,
Is my private cul de sac.
I can't get from the cab to the curb,
Without some little jerk on my back,
Don't harass me kid,
Can't you tell I'm going home, I'm tired as hell,
I'm not the cat I used to be,
I've got a kid, I'm 54 baby.
Get in the road.
Come on now,
In the middle of the road.

Thanks Chrissie. The middle of the road isn't looking for me, it's found me. Actually, it probably found me when I was around 40. I don't know too many people who live to be 108, so the end is way closer than the beginning.

I'm not sure how I feel about this 54 thing. I'm old enough to remember a TV show about a 'Car 54,' dude, that's really old. I think if I were to golf, I might be able to shoot my age for nine holes, so that's cool, sort of. I would have preferred to shoot my age when I was 38.

All in all I can't complain. I've had cancer twice and am still here. Living to be this age, you lose your parents along the way.  I don't care for that much, but am comforted that I will see them both again some day.

I got my new drivers license yesterday. When I looked at it, it was like 'whoa, who the fuck is that guy?' It's amazing the mental image we still have of ourselves as the hair goes and the lines in your face get deeper and longer. Sometimes I think 54 is also my waist size, shit. I'm 6'0", and used to weigh around 170. Since my 30's it's been a 25 lb. a decade weight gain. I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Yep, here comes 'poppin fresh' waddling down the road, singin doo wah ditty.

Eh, it could be worse, a lot worse. I can still ride my bike a long way when I make myself do so. The words 'Viagra,' and 'Cialis,' are not in my vocabulary so that is good, real good. I can always go on a diet and lose some weight. The pisser is that it's hard to give up the Mirror Pond, pizza, and nachos. Well, it's one or the other, I'm not sure who will win this one to be honest. Check back next year and we'll see, maybe.

The Heart and Soul of the E Street Band

What can I say that hasn’t already been said? Last Saturday, Clarence the ‘Big Man’ Clemons died of complications from a stroke that he suffered the week before. Although initial reports were encouraging that Clarence was responding well to the surgeries he had, the Big Man just couldn’t overcome the damage the stroke inflicted upon him. He was 69 years old.

I first became acquainted with Clarence in the summer of 1978. I’d vaguely heard of this guy named Springsteen, but as he didn’t’ get a lot of airplay on Portland radio; I didn’t know much about him or his band. That was about to change.

On a trip to ‘Everybody’s Records’ I saw this poster of Bruce Springsteen promoting his new album ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town.’ I figured I better pick up this LP and hear for myself what the commotion was about. From the opening chords of ‘Badlands’ I thought ‘this is interesting.’ By the time ‘Adam Raised a Cain’ was over, I was hooked. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?” I said to myself. I went back and picked up ‘Born To Run’ and it was over. This was some of the best music I’d ever heard. It reached out to me, being a 21 year-old at the time, it was amazing. And the Big Man was blowing the dirtiest sax since Bobby Keyes on ‘Brown Sugar.’ The sax solo on ‘Jungleland’ was and is the most beautiful sax solo ever.

During that summer I was an avid reader of ‘Rolling Stone’ magazine, and they were talking about the amazing live shows that Bruce was doing that tour. I fell asleep at the wheel and missed Bruce’s’ first tour through Portland, but heard nothing but great reviews of the shows and the rapport he had with Clarence. It was like a little kid playing with his big brother when they were out there on stage.

As summer turned to fall, and then winter, Bruce and the band were back on tour. On a stop in San Francisco, they did a live broadcast of the show on KSAN-FM, which was broadcast on stations up and down the west coast, including Portland. I’ll never forget that night. I put the headphones on and lost myself for the next three and a half hours. It was the most amazing thing that I’d ever heard. The band was so tight, Bruce was so light and funny on stage, and his foil was always the Big Man. Clarence brought to life the songs that Bruce sang. The albums while good never captured what the E Street Band was all about. The live shows did.

In October of 1980, I finally got to see Bruce and the boys at Memorial Coliseum in Portland. I’d been sick all week, but there was no way I was going to miss this. Three and a half hours later, a friend of mine who was a big skeptic walked out of the coliseum and said ‘That Springsteen takes rock n roll…and fuckin rocks and rolls it.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more accurate quote on Bruce and the band.

Now, 31 years later, Bruce and the band are still here, but not without some casualties.  Last year they lost keyboardist and original member Danny Federici to melanoma, and now Clarence. Danny’s’ loss was hard enough, losing the Big Man leaves a void that cannot be filled. I feel as though I’ve lost a friend. Of course I’ve never met Clarence, but through his music, his gift from God, I got to know him, very well.

So God, you have a new member of the band. If you haven’t heard of him, let me introduce you to the Minister of soul, the secretary of the brotherhood, the king of the world, the master of disaster, the Big Man, Clarence Clemons.

Time Waits For No One

'I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain 
I'm comin' on like a hurricane 
My lightning's flashing across the sky 
You're only young but you're gonna die'
Brian Johnson 'Hells Bells' AC/DC

Damn, aren't those some encouraging words. Jim Morrison of the Doors said something similar 45 years ago, 'no one here gets out alive.' That, ladies and gentlemen is an undeniable fact. How you live your life from that first glimpse of light, until your last waltz is something I think about daily.


At nearly 54 years of age, I know the sunset of my life can come before I finish this blog, later today, sometime tomorrow, next week, or next year. At anytime, usually when you least expect it, God will show up and say 'you're ass is mine now.' Sorry, no timeout's, no do-overs, no time to say good-bye, sometimes not even time to pack, just 'you're coming with me.'


If you have a belief system, as I do that shouldn't scare you. Heaven awaits you with relatives, friends, pets, and eternity where there is no pain, or sorrow; where everything is perfect. As good as that sounds, I don't know too many people who are ready to board that train and make that a one way ticket to ride, I'm sure not. The thing is, I know I don't have any control over that, only the Big Guy does.


Many people go through life, not worrying about that eventuality too much. Others don't believe, and don't worry for the same reason. To them, you get one crack at this life and when it's over it's time for the big sleep, back from where you came and all that. I, on the other hand, think about it a lot, too much.


When I was 41 years old, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. My family has a history of cancer, but like many with a family history, thought it would pass me by, not to be. Luckily it was an early stage cancer, and after surgery, radiation, and chemo, lovingly referred in the medical community as cut, burn, and poison, I was cancer free, woohoo!! Problem was, I came out of that experience a different person than the guy that went in. At 41, I was all about taking it slow, stopping and smelling the roses, basically waiting to die. I had a one year old child at the time, and all I wanted to do was enjoy my time with her. Things that were important to me previously, didn't seem so important anymore.


Fast-forward seven years, I'm cancer free, divorced, in the middle of a career change, and guess what? Yep, a recurrance of the colon cancer. Once again I was lucky and it was an early stage tumor. Thing was, the doctors now determined my cancer to be a genetic problem and advised that I have my entire large colon removed. Well, I wasn't exactly ready for that, but considering the alternatives, out it came.


While in the hospital, they took a portion of my tumor and sent it to the Mayo Clinic for analysis. What came back was that I indeed had a genetic anamoly that made me susceptible to cancers of the colon, but at increased risk for a whole host of gastro-intestinal cancers, whoopee!! I initially took this as pretty much a death warrant, it was just a matter of time. The doctor told me that it wasn't, it just meant that based on the over-all population in general, I was at higher risk. To me, that was still like saying, that if you weren't out in the Nevada desert during A-Bomb testing you were probably fine, but if you did, you were pretty well fucked.


Now, here we are, another seven years later, and I appear to be fine. Problem is, every time I get a sore throat, a stomach ache, or just feel unwell, I can't help but wonder, if 'this is it.' I know I shouldn't live that way, but it is what it is. I don't sit and wait any more. If anything, having cancer a second time was a blessing. I stopped waiting to die and started to live, I still am. Thing is, it gets very tiring. I try to block it out and just live my life, but in the back of my mind, I can't help but wonder when the other shoe is going to drop, whatever the hell that means.


I know that I could die of anything so I shouldn't be overly worried about things I can't control. Even though my belief system is solid, I still can't help but wonder what's on the other side, what it will be like, how long before I go there. I keep asking God not to take me yet. I have a wife who needs me. I have a little girl who needs her daddy. I know there is no good time to go, but now would not be a good time. I know he's listening, I just hope he agrees with me.


My mom passed away nearly four years ago. She had a faith that was shaken many years previous. She never talked about it much, but I knew she believed. When it was her time, after the initial shock and mourning, she was very strong, and very brave. My mom handled her last days in a heroic fashion and a kind of peace at the end that I can only hope to have when it's my time.


Until that time, it's time to get at the work of living, living until I die.

Shafted Stone

In 1969, Mick Taylor was a fresh-faced 20-year-old guitar player. For the three years prior, Mick had played and recorded with the influential blues band John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers.

That same year, Brian Jones was sacked by his band, The Rolling Stones. Not long after Mick received a phone call from another Mick, Mick Jagger, asking if he wanted to jam with the Stones. Taylor at the time thought he was just going to do some sessions and overdub a couple of songs. In fact, the first two songs he played on was ‘Honky Tonk Women,’ and ‘Let It Bleed.’ Much to Taylor’s surprise, he got a phone call from Mick Jagger the next day asking if he wanted to join the band. Although he was much younger than the rest of the Stones, and much more musically accomplished, he signed on with the band.

Taylor’s’ first live appearance with the Stones came two days after the mysterious death of Brian Jones, who apparently had drowned in his pool. The concert, held at Hyde Park in London, drew an estimated 250,000 people. On his first US tour with the Stones, he played at Altamont Speedway outside of San Francisco. The free concert turned into a disaster after the stabbing death of Meredith Hunter, who was killed  by a member of the Hell’s Angels after allegedly pulling out a gun. So much for peace, love, and coming to San Francisco with flowers in your hair.

From 1969, through 1974 Mick played on some of the best Stones albums ever recorded, including Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, Exile On Main Street, Goat’s Head Soup, and It’s Only Rock’n’Roll. In addition he played on the classic live album Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out, which is regarded by this blogger as one of the greatest live albums ever recorded.

This was probably one of, it not the most creative periods in the Stones long career, and Mick Taylor contributed significantly. With his jazz, blues, and country influences he blended seamlessly with Keith Richards playing. Some of the best solos of that era were Mick’s. His slide playing on songs such as All Down The Line, and Dead Flowers, were masterful. You can also hear his excellent solos on a host of songs including Moonlight Mile, Sway, Can You Hear Me Knocking, and many others.

Although not a songwriter, Mick contributed to the creation of both Moonlight Mile, and Sway from the Sticky Fingers album. Keith wasn’t around at the time, so Jagger worked on the songs with Taylor. The pisser here is that Taylor, for whatever reason, was not given songwriting credit. The Jagger/Richards songwriting team was pretty tight at the time, and I guess no outsiders were allowed. Mick did get credit for co-writing Ventilator Blues on Exile On Main Street.

Along with the songwriting slight, Taylor found it was increasingly hard to work with Richards, hell, who wouldn’t? Keith’s increasing drug usage, hangers on, etc, was making it increasingly hard for Taylor, as well as the rest of the band to record and tour. Keith had probably been kicked out of more countries than he could get into.

By 1974, the drugs, lack of recognition, the difficulty in recording and touring were starting to take its toll. Taylor was easily and equal to the late Brian Jones in musicianship, and in my estimation far better than the man who would eventually replace him Ronnie Wood. No knock on Ronnie, but to me, the creative period that was Mick Taylor’s era surpasses anything that came before or since.

Although a great player, he never really fit in with the Stones. Not to say they didn’t like him, he was younger, he was different than they were. I’d even go so far as to say the Richards had a problem with the fact that Taylor was a better guitar player than he was. Keith had the brilliant open G tuning he played in, but Taylor’s virtuosity far outmatched Keith’s playing. To me, it’s no surprise that the bands greatest period of music coincided with the arrival of Taylor, and declined after his departure. Get mad Stones fans, but it’s true. They have recorded some great music since, but nothing since 1974 stands up to Exile, Let It Bleed, or Sticky Fingers, nothing.

When he left, Taylor left a legacy of great guitar playing with the Stones. The reasons he left are many. Some have to do with his drug use at the time, and fear that it would only get worse if he stayed with the Stones. It actually got worse after he left, but hey, that’s rock’n’roll.

Taylor has said many times that he has no regrets in leaving the Stones. He was the first to leave and survive. Bill Wyman left much later and is doing well.

The thing that really rubs me the wrong way in all of this is after he left, Taylor was still paid royalties for his performances with the band on the albums he played on. Well, in 1982, after a change in record labels, the band’s management used a loophole in their contract to have Taylor excluded from getting paid his fair share of the performance royalties. I don’t understand how a band as successful and wealthy as the Stones are would do something to someone who so mightily contributed to their success. Hell, Brian was still on the payroll when he got sacked. I’m sure the boys would have cut him off eventually as well. Funny, how a band once feared on nearly every developed county in the world, now has homes in those same countries, yet they screw Mick out of the money he so deserves.

Taylor isn’t exactly living in poverty, but he’s not living the good life either. After leaving the Stones, the great anticipation of what he might do never materialized either. I was always one of those who asked ‘whatever happened to Mick Taylor?”

Well, Mick continued to play and still does. He doesn’t play in arenas and stadiums, but in small clubs with small bands. He’s been in demand as a session player with many including Jeff Beck, Mayall, and others.

The road hasn’t been a smooth one for Taylor. He’s been divorced, had his drug and alcohol problems, been screwed by the band he helped make an even bigger success than they were, but he’s still out there. If he makes it to your town, go out and support what he’s doing. The guy can still play. He’s 62 now, and not the skinny, youthful guy that he once was, but he’s still a brilliant player.

Wish him well the rest of the way, he deserves it.

She's not the little girl I once knew

Tomorrow night, my little girl graduates from the eighth grade. Some may say she’s not so little now, but she always will be to me. On Saturday, June 4^th she’ll turn 14, and in the fall be a freshman in high school. How fast the years have gone by, ‘like a warm summer breeze,’ as the song goes.

This ‘little girl’ I’m talking about has a name. Angela Christine Williams to be exact. She was born 14 years ago in Portland, Oregon, at St. Vincent Hospital. She came to us a little early, and a little small, five pounds, 11 ounces as I recall. She was little, she was small, she was ‘dinky,’ which gave her, her first nickname, ‘Pinky Dink.’ The ‘Pinky’ came from all of the baby shower gifts we received upon notice of Angela’s soon to be arrival. Everything was pink. Eventually that nickname would just become ‘Pink.’

Initially we were led to believe that this newly conceived child was to be a boy. An early ultrasound showed what looked to be a little ‘peepee.’ But as the doctor said, it was a bit early to determine that for sure. A few months later, in another exam it was quite clear that we were going to have a little girl. While I was completely down with the idea of having a boy, the idea of having my own little girl made me very happy. I can’t quite put it into words, but I just felt like, for the first time, I was going to have something that was mine and could never be taken away. And no matter what happened, I would always be her daddy.

To be honest, I was never very keen on being a father. My upbringing didn’t exactly entail having Ozzie and Harriet Nelson as my parents. It was closer to Fred and Ethel Mertz, but even that doesn’t describe it. Nope, it was pretty dysfunctional and jaded any view I may have had of being a dad someday. By the time I got married at 32 I was warming to the idea, but really not sold, not in the least.

Angela’s arrival on the scene took awhile. It turned out that I didn’t have a whole lot of little fishies, and the ones I had, weren’t very strong swimmers. So after many attempts, trips to the doctor, pills, implants, procedures, you name it, we couldn’t conceive. I was approaching 40 and thought ‘OK, I’m about done.’ My wife at the time agreed that after one more try with this latest new fangled procedure, that if it didn’t work, we’d just move on.

Well, needless to say it didn’t work, and after some mourning on my wife’s part, we went about our life thinking we’d be childless, so much for that idea. It wasn’t long afterwards, that after going about things in the traditional way it was announced that we were prego, I was stunned. After all of the procedures we’d been through to have a baby didn’t work, we went about it the old fashioned way and ‘BINGO,’ we were having a baby.

This was not one of my better moments. In fact, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done. I was really upset that after all we’d done, we were finally going to have a baby. What should have been the happiest day of my wife’s life, I ruined, completely. It’s not that I didn’t want a baby at that point. It was just that after all of the work, yes work, to have a baby, I was of the belief we weren’t gong to have one and had moved on. I was looking forward to golf and tennis whenever I wanted. A trip to the beach with no concerns about a babysitter, woohoo, partay!! That all changed in a heartbeat, and forever fucked up my relationship with my future ex-wife because of it. I still look back on that as my biggest day as an asshole. I’ve had plenty of big ones since, but not like that.

I eventually warmed up of course, and the arrival of our child meant new plans. We made the spare bedroom into a nursery. And when we found out we were having a girl, of course it became pink. Maybe it’s a guy thing, but I couldn’t totally grasp what was going on inside my wife. Her tummy was growing, and something was moving around in there. I knew it was a baby but it was an abstraction at the time, I just couldn’t get my head around it. That is until she hiccupped. Yep, one night were lying in bed and Cheryl starts to twitch. I asked what was up and she said the baby was hiccupping. I’d never heard of that. I put my hand on her tummy, and sure enough, Angela hiccupped. I left my hand on her tummy, and she did it again. I thought that was the funniest damn thing I’d ever experienced. There was really somebody inside there, and she had the hiccups!

It wasn’t too long after, that Angela joined our family. The doctors had to induce labor due to things I don’t’ quite remember, but Angela joined us the evening of June 4^th, 1997.

I remember after she slithered her way out, they cleaned her up and let me hold her, whoa! It was love at first site. This precious little bundle was mine. She was so small and fragile, and I vowed right there that no one would ever hurt my little girl. I also flashed back to the things I had done as a kid and in my mind, apologized to my mom for all the stupid things I had done in anticipation of what this little kid was probably going to do to me someday.

At soon to be 14, she really hasn’t done much, at least if she has, I don’t know about it.

She has been my treasure and my beacon of light in tough times. There were times during my divorce that I was really unhappy. The only thing that made my life worthwhile was Angela. She helped me keep my head on straight when there were times it was seriously sideways.

She has brought much joy to my life in these 14 years. Oh yeah, there have been some speed bumps along the way, she isn’t perfect and neither am I. We have both made our share of mistakes, but as a dad, I couldn’t be more proud. As she graduates eighth grade tomorrow, I realize that she isn’t that same little girl who would ride her trike and say ‘watch me daddy, watch me!’ She’s not the little girl who would run across the room and jump on me, knocking me over with both of us laughing, only to have her get up and do it a dozen more times.

I can’t help but wonder now if there were enough trips to the park? If there were enough pushes on the swing? Did we ride the bus and see the fountain enough? Were there enough bedtime stories? I can’t get those times back. I hope they were enough for her, as they weren’t enough for me.

Even at 14, she is still the girl who still calls me ‘daddy.’ She’s still the girl who let’s me come in and kiss her good night when she goes to bed. She’s still the girl who cries as my voice changes when I get angry.

I know that sometimes I drive her a bit crazy, and that she thinks I’m a bit strange. But I know she loves me all the same. She’s growing up on me now, and no, she’s not the little girl I once knew, but she’s still my little girl.