THE VIEW FROM HERE

Mama's boy and daddy's girl - it's no accident that these terms came to being. And though many of us would deny being so, the fact of the matter is that it's human nature to be particularly close to one parent. Perhaps it's the element of nurture and care that a mother has to offer to her son's life while the world around him expects an image of independence, fearlessness and masculinity. Perhaps it's the sense of security a father can offer his daughter in a world that, many times, seems very frightening and insecure. Whatever the reasons, I can assure you I am a full-fledged daddy's girl and have been since my toddler years. And my husband? Though he'd be reluctant to admit it, he's a true mama's boy.
I can remember, even at the mere age of four or five, looking to my father as a mainstay in my life, a source of comfort and security. Intrigued by him, his interests soon became mine as I was eager to be an important part of his life. I would sometimes awaken in the early hours of the morning, before sunlight, to watch him eat his breakfast of eggs, toast and grape juice before he ventured off for a day's work at the local creamery. In the evenings, I can remember sitting close beside to share a piece of pie as he told my mother of his day. Occasionally, I even got a glimpse of this life I knew to be "work" as we would accompany my grandpa in his milk truck on a weekend route, grandpa and dad conversing over things that made little sense to me while I occupied myself with jelly beans.
During my middle school years, my father transferred to the Decorah creamery and our family relocated to the nearby city. It was at that time that I tried my hand at sports. My dad had always been very athletic and, I think, had the same in mind for me. We'd spend evenings shooting hoops in the driveway, though I was rarely able to get a shot passed my tall guard without his allowing it, and others tossing the football back and forth in the backyard while we talked of my school day. Occasionally, I would round up friends and neighbors for a small game of touch football, fun, yet made difficult by the tree that grew in the very middle of our yard, the source of a few scrapes and bruises. Needless to say, I never became that extraordinary athlete, but never felt as if my dad was disappointed. We are, after all, each with our own talents and interests. Though my talent was not sports, the hours we spent together were never a waste of time.
On weekends, my dad would give me a ride on his Harley Davidson - that bike, too, now a memory. We were quite the team, each with our own safety helmet, mine white with a sticker of the American flag on the side.
Then came my teen years, rocky as they are for nearly every young person seeking independence and respect in this newfound "maturity." Unfortunately, this time was made even more difficult by a divorce and a second relocation of our family - my mother, sisters, brother and I to Cresco, my father to Waukon. But in ninth grade, I made a final move to Waukon, where I again rejoined my father, grandparents, aunts and uncles who have remained in this hometown throughout their lives. And today, I, too, remain here, still close to my dad so that my children might know him as a grandfather as I have as a father.
And now, I watch my own daughter cuddle with her dad in the evenings, joined to share a bag of popcorn on a recliner and feeling so important to have her dad's attention and affection. Yet another "daddy's girl," much to her father's pride.