My father passed away when I was fourteen years old. I still mourn his loss to this day. Daddy was one of those fathers who could see deep into your soul. He told me things about myself that I didn't see. He loved my sense of goofball humor and was the only person in my entire life to this day who would play act my terrible impersonation of Curly from the Three Stooges. We had a thing about who did the best Curly shuffle, which always ended up in stomach cramping laughter. But humor came easy for him. He loved to change the pronunciation of words like Cadillac to cadillyyak or Neil Diamondisagirlsbestfriend. Plus he had his own way of describing menial things like a belch. It became 'excuse the hog, the pig's out walking.' Dad was a writer, director, photographer, and producer for the US Army. Many of the educational films shown to the cadets were done by him as well as the documented funerals of high ranked officers and politicians. His military pictures were published in many books and encyclopedias. Even now when I do a search on WW2, Korean War, and Vietnam, I find pictures from his catalog. The original negatives can be found in the stacks of his pictorial collection kept in my care. He was a close friend to comedians of his era, including Henny Youngman, who would like to joke on the Carson show about 'stealing' one of Dad's jokes. Making up jokes was second nature to him. It is from my father that I inherited a goofy personality as well as the love of music. Dad even named me after his friend and one of his favorite singers, Patti Page. 

But one thing Daddy kept instilling in me during our short time together was to never give up hope on one's dreams. He saw a written talent in me that even my 4th grade teacher did not see. She humiliated me in front of the class claiming that I had plagiarised a story I had written. After consoling me, he stormed into her classroom. Clad in full dress uniform as he had an award ceremony that day, he was quite the picture as he let her know that honesty was the core of our family. He never raised his voice to her, but his deep tone was enough to shake the paint off the walls. In his log book, he showed her the dates where he took me to the library, the park, and several other places I needed to go to research this two page story. Dad taught me about researching my subjects in order to create reality for the reader. I was only nine years old at that time, but I knew the importance of showing, not telling, a story. 

Dad died at the young age of 51. Too sudden for any of us to comprehend. And when he died, my dreams died as well. That is until recently when I finished my first mystery manuscript. You see my father always told me that I would become an author one day. Even as young as six, he would walk me through the library telling me that one day he would see my name up on those shelves.

Because of him, I have written stories all my life. We even wrote a musical together. I found it years ago and cringed at how bad it was. But Daddy loved it. He even taught me the power of dialogue and the proper way to lay out a screen play complete with shot directions. I can't look at a film today without noticing how the director did his camera angles. Daddy showed me how to spot a story in just about anything the eye could see, the nose could smell, the ears could hear, and the mouth could taste. I was to describe all of those sensations as we sat together eating our favorite banana splits with chocolate ice cream and crushed pineapple. I blame my chocolate addiction on him. He loved hot chocolate on a cold night. It's a habit that I never stopped.

When I turned 60, it sucker punched me that I could not leave this plane without completing a manuscript. If not for me, then for him. And, I mean full stop polished, done, and dusted, as he would say. At this point, the only things I had published were newspaper commentaries, three articles in a free local hip paper, and the many auto insurance user manuals that I was responsible for as a technical writer. I don't think any of those would warrant his praise as much as seeing his daughter's name up on a library shelf. 

I gathered several pictures of him together and prayed for guidance. It may sound daft to those who do not believe in muses, but I truly believe that it was his spirit that watched over me as I wrote Croaked: A Ribbiting Murder. Suddenly, I was filled with belief that this book would get finished, unlike the many partials that sit on my computer and/or the shelf in the unused sitting room left unattended since my mother's passing nine years ago

. If you have ever read Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, you will know that I am not alone in this belief. While I could only hope to learn enough from her work & writing style to attempt a smidgen of her talent, I do know what she meant when she noted how it was her father's spirit who guided her during the writing of that book. 

My book is dedicated to a father whom I hope will see my name on those library shelves, even if it is in spirit only.

Patti