My First Memory.

My beautiful Ladybug from my dear friend Alex.

My very first memory of my father is at our home in South Africa. I am standing amongst the flowers in front of our house and on the Fennel plant there is this tiny red and black bug. My father reaches out for it and it climbs on his finger and he shows me the bug and says "This is a Ladybird" and he gently transfers the Ladybird to my finger.

I am quite the Ladybird (Ladybug to Americans) collector. My husband has spoiled me the most by creating a vast collection over the years. Whenever I see a Ladybird I always think of my Father. As many of you know that follow my blog, this is a horrible time of the year for me and I spend the December days with the what ifs flowing through my head. 31st December will be 12 years since my Father was murdered. I wonder if the people who chose to take his life ever think of him on this day?

My father wasn't perfect by any means, but he was that person you wanted on your team. He was the first to volunteer to help and never complained when people took advantage of him, I bitched, but he would just smile and remind us all what the purpose was.

My very first car my father bought me was a Volkswagon Citi Golf. The original colors were Red, Yellow and Blue. I got the very first pink one. I loved that car until I got a phone call from my father one morning saying "So you were at the Hard Rock Cafe until 2am yesterday." Everyone knew who the car belonged to and reports were fed back to my parents on my whereabouts. My father was smart.

I loved this car. 

Being Portuguese we are all about entertaining and when we were in high school we had the best sleepovers with the most amazing food. My father would always provide prawns from Mozambique or the largest Crayfish (Lobsters to Americans) and would stay to help us cook them and we would feast as if it was our last day.

My Father and I cooking at one of our many sleepovers.

To say my father is missed is an understatement. Whenever I see a penny on the ground I will always pick it up because I believe that it is my father saying hullo. It is those little things that get me through some days.

My biggest regret is 12 years ago on Christmas I wanted to call my father and my ex-husband refused to let me call saying I could call on New Years. Costs to call South Africa back then were high. I didn't argue and New Years Eve my father was kidnapped. I have an immense amount of guilt that I didn't stand up to my ex-husband and tell him that I was going to call.  The lesson I learned is to never let a day go by without telling those close to you how much they mean to you.

While my heart aches at no longer being able to hear my father's voice, hear his laugh or see his beautiful hands, my heart rejoices that for 35 years I was lucky to have this amazing man in my life and who I had the privilege of calling Daddy.

I Still Remember.

Daddy at my Uncle's home in Madeira.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when my life changed forever.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when my brother called to tell me that my father was missing.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when I knew that my father was gone.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when I knew that I wouldn't ever see his smiling face, hear his infectious laugh, hold his caring hands and receive anymore robust hugs.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when I knew that I was so blessed to have spent time with my father in March 2001 on a family vacation.  Who knew it would be the last.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when I knew what it felt like to have a part of your heart taken away, never to be replaced.

11:00am, 31st December 2001 is when I learned that you never let the sun set on your anger, that you love with abandon and that you never miss an opportunity to let someone know how much they mean to you and how much you love them.

Daddy, you are missed, every day.  

I am my father's daughter.

Me and my daddy. 

In my father's will he left a coin to T.  Only 215 of these coins had been minted.  Last week I took the coin to a dealer to have appraised.

The conversation went as follows:

Dealer: (checking internet) I see only a few were minted. Very interesting coin.  How much do you want for it?

Me:  I don't want to sell it, I need to know a value for insurance purposes.

Dealer: (takes coin and throws it back on the counter towards me) This is a re-strike.

Me: How can you tell?

Dealer:  The 8 is larger than the 9

Me: Could I use your magnifying glass to see? (hands me glass) I don't see any difference.

Dealer: It's not a re-strike, it's a re-pour.  This coin has no value.

I left the coin dealer and as I drove home I wept.  I wept for my father who was once again duped by someone he helped financially.  I wept for my father who would give the shirt off his back to those that needed it.  I wept for my father and for how many times people continued to abuse his kindness and love.

Something made me stop at another coin dealer in town.  I took it in and it so happened that there was a coin dealer from New York who was very familiar with South African coins.  I asked him to look at the coin as I was told that it was a re-strike or re-pour.  He looked at the coin and he told me that is was genuine.  It was the real thing. His advice was to send it into NGC for appraisal.

The relief that washed over me was immense.  Finally someone had not duped my father.  When my father was murdered and I was going through all of his things I came across a wooden box.  I opened the wooden box and was in disbelief.  There were hundreds of pieces of papers of IOU's that people had signed of money they 'borrowed' from my father.  There were promises of paybacks and dates.  The amounts were incredulous. To this day not one of those people have come forward to repay the loan. We as a family made a decision not to approach those people.  That is not what my father would have wanted.

I am my father's daughter.  I give of my heart too freely.  I love too deeply and I trust blindly. I am the first to be there to pick someone up when they have fallen.  I am the first to be someone's cheerleader when their depression engulfs them.  I am the one that gently pushes and helps people towards their dreams and goals.

My mother reminded me today that I will always be who I am.  That I will always be my father's daughter.

And that is something to be proud of.

If I had one more day.

I would make you your coffee just the way you loved it and serve it with our favorite bacon and egg sandwich.

I would gather all ingredients and have you cook your fabulous dishes, but this time I would take notes.

I would open up a bottle of your favorite wine and we would drink it while cooking.

I would sneak you another Godiva chocolate while Lala wasn't watching.

I would take a photo of our hands.

I would record your laugh.

I would ask you more questions about your life growing up.

I would tell you that I was proud to be your daughter.

I would thank you for always being there when I needed you.

I would hold on to you for just a little bit longer.