All my years growing up, I was constantly aware of the strained relationship I had with my father. He was an overly proud man; inflexible and easily disturbed. He was also quite a passionate man, but everyone in our house knew that he rarely focused those emotions on anything positive. My experiences with him usually left my stomach in knots, but there were a few special times that left me feeling nothing but perfect love.

One such occasion occurred when I was in the sixth grade and the school was having a coloring contest. Only the sixth graders were allowed to enter, which somehow made me feel special. Every student was given a coloring book to take home. The prize was a pair of roller skates. I remember filling with excitement at the prospect of winning those sweet skates, but even more appealing than the contest, was the coloring. It was something I'd loved since I was old enough for my father to teach me how to hold a crayon.

I anxiously brought the book home; hoping for his enthusiasm. I knew he enjoyed making things. He kept a circular saw in the cellar, in which he used to make ANYTHING my mother wanted or needed out of wood, even large pieces of furniture. Sometimes he would even put his special touches on what he made by using decals and spray paint. He also enjoyed making and decorating little bird houses, which he displayed around our house.

How I dreamt of that man's approval and that he would show an interest in that coloring contest, as I rode home on the school bus that late afternoon. When I saw him that evening, it was the first thing I said to greet him. I said: "Hey Dad, look at the coloring book I got from school today! It's for a coloring contest! The winner gets a pair of roller skates!" and I showed him the book.

He sat down and began flipping through it. Then after dinner I started working on my project for the evening; lying on my stomach on the living room floor.

My father came over and sat down next to me. "I can help you if you want," he commented.

"Oh...... I don't think that's allowed," I replied.

"Oh it's okay," he giggled.

I was still unsure, but excited at the thought and I never EVER argued with my father, so I said: "Okay!" Perhaps he thought if the school let the students take the project home that it was okay to have help?

He picked up a crayon and started working on the page next to mine. "Yours is better than mine!" I exclaimed, with a frown when we were finished. Then I examined his work more closely. He had used the black crayon to darken in all the outlining of the pages he colored. "I love the way you darkened all the outlines! It really makes the picture stand out!" I exclaimed. Then I took the black crayon and did the same thing to my pages.

"Beautiful!" he declared over my work; that meant more to me than words could ever express. Then I smiled ear to ear. I ended up winning that contest, or should I say we? I'll never forget how elated I felt. I also felt a bit guilty having had help, but I have never regretted letting him join in; it actually made me feel more like a real daughter, which meant those moments coloring turned out even better and brighter than I even dared to imagine!

That experience taught me that even though he was somewhat disturbed, my father was not void of positive passions; he just expressed them in unconventional ways. And now I had special information about his zest for life that would stay with me forever. To this day I can still see those brightly colored images in my mind's eye. How they DID stand out and show me something wonderful about the man I called dad. That evening I got to experience an amazing memory of him, because I got to feel his most intense and flattering love. And it was all due to that coloring book and that eye-opening contest.

Years later, my father shot and killed himself on a crisp November afternoon in 1998. No one, not even my mother even knew he had a gun. He was 61 years old. I'll cherish my memories of him, always.