The Man Behind the Beard

Dear Readers,

Beyond a handful of pictures I’ve seen from his younger years, I have never seen my dad without a full beard. Never once. It’s safe to say that asking him to shave it off would be equivalent to asking him to cut off his own foot, it’s that much a part of him. My grandma Donna used to threaten to come over and shave it off while my dad was sleeping, but even as a small child I knew it was an empty threat and something she said just to get a rise out of my dad (which he was usually happy to oblige). But I’m not writing this blog about the gloriousness of my father’s facial hair; rather this bit of writing is dedicated to the man behind the beard.

Understandably, some of you are excitedly awaiting to see what sort of hilarious prose I deliver at the expense of my father's ego. It would only be fair, after all of the compromising Christmas letters and humiliating stories he's passed around about me and my sister's throughout the years. What justice would be served by me recounting the time he decided that my birthday would be the best day to fill the attic with insulation (I, the lucky birthday girl, was feeding the bricks of it into the insulation blower. Nothing says "Happy Birthday" like fiber glass burns), and then fell through the ceiling onto Andrea's bed, filling the house with shredded insulation just hours before my party guests were due to arrive? Perhaps you feel that I would get some pleasure out of revealing the time he fell off of the roof of his garage, only to have a neighbor yell at him, "Call the doctor! Call the nurse! Call the lady with the alligator purse!"? But to you I say, this is an article of dignity and substance, not cheap shots at the man who painstakingly raised three well-behaved, beautiful daughters alongside his wife.

There are some of you that probably have not had the distinct pleasure of meeting my dad, David Badger. I can't help but feel sorry for you, as he's a great man to know. Although some might consider him an "expert on rocks", he truly is one of the most intelligent people I know. A reader of fine literature, a lover of history, and a great fan of the Coen Brother's films (I believe I watched "Raising Arizona" more than any other film in my formative years), he always has something interesting to say about what he's reading/writing/watching. He has a great affection for Austria and Germany, having served an LDS mission in Austria, and later becoming a German teacher and making several trips back to the countries he connected so well with. None of us girls speak German, nor have we set foot on the European continent; none-the-less, I (and I'm sure Andrea and Kate would say the same thing) have always felt that I inherited a foreign heritage. Perhaps it was because we had to sing "Silent Night" in German at church once; more likely it was the amount of German pastries and chocolates we've consumed over the years. Regardless, my dad's love of Deutschland was passed down to us.

As I've mentioned in earlier blogs, my love of the outdoors is directly related to my father's influence. Born and raised in Rupert, he is probably the foremost expert on the Mini-Cassia area. His love and connection to both the desert and the mountains of Southern Idaho is deep, and just as much a part of him as his beard. Growing up, on Sunday's we would go on long, arduous drives on the country roads that seemed to lead to nowhere, being forced to listen to Prairie Home Companion. Although I now appreciate the knowledge gained from those drives (sparking my own love of both the terrain and NPR), at the time they were torture. There was nothing worse then being stuck in the backseat of our Pontiac with my obnoxious sisters. Typically by the end of the drive, my dad would blindly reach into the backseat until he could grab onto one of us and give a big shake accompanied by threats to leave us on the side of the road. I'm not sure how he survived us.

My dad is a man of great faith, and I can't help but admire him for it. He's very quietly dedicated to his neighbors and community; it's not rare to call home and have my mom say that he's out of the house helping someone or another. He's set the example for me of what service is. His integrity is unmatched; it's very black and white for him, what's right is what's right. Typically a man of this fashion would have a closed mind, but my dad has always been progressive and open minded. A rarity, indeed.

I find as I get older I see more and more of my dad in me. We are both stubborn, insufferable know-it-alls, and that helped to cause a fight or two between us in the past. We both think that we're the funniest people we know, often found laughing the hardest at our own jokes. We are both work-a-holics. We are both impatient. We both require our space, to be left alone when watching tv or reading, and can only spend very limited amounts of time in noisy and chaotic situations. My annoying habit of singing my boys awake in the morning is a direct result of my father raising me. So very many things; down to the way my eyes crinkle when I smile.

My relationship with my dad has gone full circle. There was a long time where I wondered if I would ever amount to anything that he would be proud of. I think we all worry about things like that at one time or another. But his opinion in-particular has always been the most important to me (regardless of whether I let him know it or not). So you can imagine my relief and joy when he called me as an adult woman in my 30's and told me that he was proud of me, that he respected my life decisions, and that he loved me. I don't know that I've ever left a conversation so moved before. I get choked up just typing about it.

I'm a lucky girl to have David Badger for my dad. I have a fierce sense of pride in my family (even those obnoxious sisters of mine have earned my loyalty), and am grateful to have been raised a Badger Girl. My mom earns a blog of her own, which I'll deliver next month. For my father however, as a little tiny bit of his 60th birthday present, I want to give him this sentiment:

Dad, I'm glad to have your traits. I'm glad I have your influence. I'm proud of you. I respect you. And I love you, so very much.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. Dad, please remember how kind I've been to you when you sit down to write your next Christmas letter. Feel free to embarrass Kate and Andrea as much as you like; but please, have pity on me.