We’ve all heard the phrase.

That certainly rang true with me. Even when I knew the answer to a question I had, or was almost 99% sure of what to do, I still called Dad. Somehow, hearing what he would do in a similar situation was reassuring. Now that he’s gone, I miss being able to call him at a moment’s notice.

Anymore, people use caller ID to screen calls, or let voicemail pick up, but not Dad. He always answered.

Always.

Like the time I called to say the morning show had won the CMA Award for the first time. “Where can I get tickets? We want to be in the audience,” he said.

Or the time I called to say I was on the way to the ER with Hayden, who couldn’t break his high fever. “Call me when you get there and keep me posted,” he told me. After Hayden was given an IV for fluids, I text Dad to say we’re ok. “Gr8,” he wrote back.

By the way, I saved that text, thinking my 63-year-old Dad was hip and clever.

And then there was the Sunday I called to say we wouldn’t be over to visit. I explained we had cut it too close on time, and I had to be at a work event. “Well, could I come get the boys? They can be with your mom and I for the day.”

I asked Griffin this week to tell me about his favorite time he spent with Papaw.

Sure enough, he told me it was that Sunday he spent the entire day at his house. The Sunday the boys almost didn’t go. The Sunday Dad convinced me that he and Mom could watch the kids. “He swam with me in the pool,” Griff said. “And threw me up in the air.”

That was ten days before Dad died. I’m grateful they had that time together.

And I’m grateful Dad answered the phone.

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