Letter To My Father

Today is my dad’s birthday. You may know him as Bill or Beepa or Mr. Bupp. But to a very select, incredibly lucky group, he is Dad.

Dad, there are a few things that I hope you know, a few things that I likely don’t tell you enough and maybe even some things that you don’t know but I should have told you.

One of my very favorite moments in “all my put together” was at the end of the aisle on my wedding day. I simultaneously wish someone had recorded it and am happy that it is a moment that only you and I share. As my bridesmaids were walking down the aisle, you told me that you were proud of me for waiting for Kyle, for having the confidence to wait for someone that I truly loved with everything I had and that loved me the way I deserved to be loved. I do, he does and he was worth the wait.

I hope you know, you must know, that you and mom, the family you created and my place in it are the reason I had that confidence to wait. It’s because of you and mom and the support you always gave me that I was able to get to know myself and allow myself to take chances and sometimes mess up, to take chances and sometimes succeed and to take chances and sometimes end up right where I started, no worse for the wear. It’s because you and mom always were there to celebrate milestones or help me pick up the pieces that I became this woman, a woman who would trust that “when you know, you know.”

Here’s what else I know:

I know I am sorry for that time Jenny Brown and I went to a party with those U.P. highschoolers when we were with you at the MHSAA basketball finals. I know I never, ever want a car ride home like that again. Oopsie. I can’t imagine how worried you were. They were harmless, but it was stupid. I am pretty sure that is the first time I heard you utter the F-word.

I know I am glad—as embarrassed as I was at the time—that you plucked me out of my first high school party that I tried to attend as a freshman. I still remember all the heads turning your way and the room falling silent when you walked into that senior’s house and said, “Your mother and I will wait for you in the car.”  Thanks for being my parent and not my friend (until later).

I know I still have most of the letters you wrote me. The one you wrote when I moved to Los Angeles is framed on my wall, as is the thank you note you wrote me when I took you to your first opening day and you helped the Governor practice throwing out the first pitch. Somewhere, too, I still have the “you are a bad kid” letter from when you thought I took some shampoo meant for Heather or something. :) Most of the letters I have are “good kid” letters, thankfully.

I know I wish I could have known what to say when we moved your mother out of her house and into an assisted living facility. I still remember you crying when we drove away. I felt so sad for you.

I know I think it is very brave that you are pursuing information about your birth parents.

I know that I was both delighted and surprised the first time I learned that you read the book I wrote for Sophie during your volunteer reading sessions with the DeWitt first graders.

I know that I really did think I had the golf cart in forward—not reverse—when I went through the back of the garage. I swear (and I am still sorry)!

I know that, while it is always a very funny story and I can laugh about it now, it was not nice to have Tom hide in the trash can and jump out and scare me when I opened it to get whatever it was you wanted out of there. Naughty!

When I was little, I remember riding the bus from the elementary school to the high school to wait with you before I went to dance class. I remember getting scared when students would say, “Are you a Bupp?” They sometimes weren’t very nice, mostly because you were the Vice Principal and they were in troddle. But now, on the increasingly seldom occasion that I run into someone that knew-you-when and they say, “Are you a Bupp?” I respond with pride, “Yes. Yes I am.”  (Although, my favorite is when I am with Heather and Jess and the blast-from-your-past says, “You must be Bupp girls.”) 


I very much am a Bupp—right down to my very own “save the world” mode.

Happy birthday, Dad, I love you.

:)sbc