“My dad is a character. Literally. His actual name is James. But everyone calls him Buz, with only one ‘z.’ He loves being the center of attention. When I was a kid, whenever we took family photos, he’d lift up his shirt to show off his hairy stomach. And he still calls my grandmother every April Fool’s day to tell her my mom is pregnant. Not everyone thinks he’s funny. I used to be terrified that he’d start talking to other parents at school dances. Because he doesn’t really converse. He just launches into stories. And they’re not always appropriate. The letter writing started in fourth grade. I went to a sleep away camp thirty minutes from my house, and he wrote me letters every day. Then he did it again in fifth grade. And sixth. And seventh. My trips to camp grew longer until I was working as a counselor and staying all summer. And he still wrote me a letter, every single day The letters continued into college. And I still get them today. I’ve gotten almost 500 of them since I moved into this apartment, even though my dad lives 20 minutes down the street. Most of the letters just talk about his day. But they can also be very creative and hilarious. He once wrote 250 words about his Subway sandwich. I don’t think he can stop at this point. It’s part of his character. I wrote an article about him in my college paper, and he just loved being ‘the guy who writes his daughter letters.’ But I also view the letters as insane devotions of his love. He cries every time he takes me to the airport. He brings me flowers whenever I’m sad. With all his quirks, I really lucked out with this guy. I was once talking with my friend, and I asked her if she thought my dad was… you know… a little… ‘different.’ And I’ve always remembered her response. She said: ‘If he is, would you even care?’”
#quarantinestories
