Waiting For My World To Change

Father, dear father, come home
- H. C. Work

I always felt that my day was not complete until Daddy got home from work. During the school year I remember sitting on the couch in the living room, looking out the big picture window, waiting for him to get home. We normally weren't allowed in the living room, presumably because we were a generally rowdy bunch of children. However, I was allowed to wait there for him every night. Sometimes one or more of the others would wait with me. The feeling I got seeing his car turning into the driveway is something I just can't describe adequately. Every night, at the exact instant I first spied his car, I would bounce up and down on the couch, chanting "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!" Luckily Mom was usually busy getting dinner ready, so I almost never got in trouble for bouncing on the good couch.

Summers were different. At the end of school, Mom would pack us all up and drive out to our little summer bungalow in the country. I loved it there! There was only one problem: Daddy had to work, and he could only come to see us on weekends. By default, that made Friday night the best night of the week.

The bungalow was on a corner of a small country road and an even smaller country road. I remember waiting on the corner with my younger sister, the two of us sitting on a couple of rocks, watching impatiently for Daddy's car. We would make up silly "charms" for ourselves. "The next car is Daddy's" "Two more cars and it's him" "If we sing it'll make him get here faster" That sort of thing. The funny thing is, I think we really believed it worked. Maybe we just wanted it to.