River Jordan || Author, Speaker, Radio Personality

My Daddy was a man's man, a mama's boy, and a good old boy. Folks who make fun of those good old boy's down south don't know what they're talking about. They'd be lucky to meet one, befriend one, or marry one. A real one. Not that Hollywood game.

In 1933 my Daddy was born in the back woods of North Florida. He was born there to a life that never came easy. Raised on a creek in the woods that offered him a magic so strong that it became his touchstone. An army man for life, he traveled the world over on duty and on leave and when asked where the best place in the world was he laughed and said, "Right here!" standing there on that swampy piece of creek in the backwoods and he meant it.

When my mother first met him he was a paratrooper in the 101 Airborne with "those pants tucked tight into those boots, and I mean to tell you," and she raises an eyebrow and smiles as if to say, "what choice did I have" Of course, when she first met him it was at little bar and restaurant on the beach called Jimmy's, which has now turned into the infamous Breakers Club, but back then it was just beer and barstools and hamburgers and the living was easy in the summertime. All waves and sunshine and southern boys from Ft. Benning and Ft. Rucker on a quick three day pass.

When she first laid eyes on him, and I swear this is true, he was teaching waitresses how to jump out of airplanes by taking them up to the roof and holding their hands while they jumped off into the sand dunes below. The true tale goes that the waitresses were more than just a little lovin' it. He took one look at my mother as she was dropping her niece off that morning for work and made her the same offer. She said, 'no thanks.' Even to the tough pants, the green eyes, the easy smile. She was a serious woman after all. Had real work to do. No jumping off roofs for her that day.

He was waiting for her when she returned that afternoon. Apparently, he had come up with a different offer. One she ended up jumping at in the end after all. And the rest, as the man says, is history. And a part of that history was in me coming to be.

I saw my Daddy jump out of planes thousands of feet high, sing jingle bells three sheets to the wind one Christmas Eve (that will always be one of my favorites), and saw this tough man cry with a broken heart over an open coffin.

I saw him return from Vietnam with a Silver Medal, a Bronze Star, and stories he wouldn't tell except to say years and years later, "We had no business over there." But he was a soldier and a soldier follows orders, fulfills the promise of his oath, and my Daddy was a good Soldier. Even if years later he was a good soldier followed by the ghosts of young boys who died too young.

I've seen him make a small man feel important. Make a lost man feel found.

He had a heart tattoo that said, "Mom" on it. And I know no matter how many beers he might of had at 19 to get that thing engraved there, my Memaw must have loved it. She being the one that made those Peanut Butter cakes for him that were seven layers tall and who always called him 'my boy' long after he was man.

We didn't always travel with my Daddy. We (my mother and me and later me, her, and baby sister) stayed put and kept the home fires burning, took care of two sets of elderly grandparents, made care boxes to send here and there and overseas. Then Daddy retired and came home to stay full time in this strange house full of women who had strange female habits like sleeping late and many other most unmilitary ways.

And I can say these things to my Daddy's credit.

He didn't try to change us. He didn't bark orders. (Although he could give me and sister a look that meant we better shape up quick that got immediate results faster than a thousand words from Momma). He taught me by example not to judge a man by his skin color, by the size of his wallet, by who his Daddy had been, or which side of the tracks he came from, but instead by the look in his eyes and by his actions.

He taught me to go easy and to know that sometimes what might seem insurmountable was just a bump in the road. He taught me, by watching him, that growing older can be good for a man's soul, align his priorities, help him to say, "I love you," as easy as a breeze.

When I told this backwoods good old country boy that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up, he didn't laugh. This man with a tenth grade education and a GED under his belt, this man who didn't read much, simply believed me. Believed in me. And sent me a huge old Thesaurus from Ft. Polk Louisiana Army camp with a note that said, "I heard all good writers need one of these."

I had hoped with all my heart that my first novel, The Gin Girl, would make it to print before Daddy died but it didn't work out that way. Such is life. But he knew it was on its way.

"So it's really going to happen?" he asked me in those final days. And I said, "Yeah, it's really gonna happen, Daddy." And so it did.

He's been gone six years now but it seems like yesterday. Mother, sister, and I are still stepping easy around the empty spaces of where he isn't . And, as I prepare this morning for a phone conference with my editor and agent on another new novel, one set right smack down on that creek in those backwoods of Florida where my Daddy let me see all its mystery and magic through his eyes, I just want to say thanks to that Good Old Country Boy for believing in me.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy - from your writer girl on this side of forever.

(This blog was contributed to the great Southern author's blog - A Good Blog Is Hard To Find - a collective of southern authors speaking out on writing, publishing, living down south and all manner of strange things. Please drop by!)

Well, it's happened. That ole summertime has landed on the streets and backwoods of Nashville. I crawled out of bed (eventually) this morning with a swollen, unswallowing sore throat thanks to husband giving me his cooties. And the best medicine seemed to be coming down to the library, dropping off and picking up more treasures, and having a hot, foamy, latte from Provence Bakery.

Just finished Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson and oh boy, can that lady ever write. What luscious wordsmithing - like a lush and wonderful dream. But I must say all of MR's books make me feel they should be read in the depths of winter snuggle up by a fire. Slowly savoring every word during a time that doesn't demand that one hurry or be elsewhere. (

Dropped by the movie theatre one night to grab some popcorn and indulge on a movie on the big screen and the place was SWAMPED by some of the most fashionably dressed movie goers I have ever seen. Little did I know that I had dropped in on the premiere night for Sex and the City. (The same movie I watched being made when I was in New York (scroll down to the bottom for snapshots on movies site) just as innocently on accident.) Man oh man, these ladies take this fashion to die thing seriously. I smiled and swept by in my blue jeans and disappeared into the Indiana Jones movie. (My opinion? Good and bad- a little rushed like National Treasure II, a little too much of Spielberg's curiosity and love of some other things - so a mixed movie if you will, and still a load of fun that goes well with popcorn on a Friday night.)