Reason No. 42 why I will forever celebrate that man

Just up the road and around the bend from one of the houses I grew up in was a drugstore with the standard issue pharmacy but also a well-rounded gift selection that included items for young children, high-school and college grads, and other items such as vases, scarves and figurines. When mother went to the drugstore, I was often in tow and while she got a prescription filled or browsed the aisles for what she needed, I was contented to walk the aisles of the gift section, dreaming I'd one day have that Barbie doll or that paint-by-number set.

It was there that I first eyed what I thought would be a perfect Father's Day gift: a small glass bull figurine with blue eyes and orange horns and hooves. I cannot recall exactly why my just shy of seven-year-old mind thought that bull would be the gift for my father, but I do remember picking it up off the shelf with great care and noting the price. And I remember thinking that with my allowance and some extra chores, maybe picking up pinecones or taking out the trash, I could earn that money and buy that bull for my father.

Which is exactly what I did. I was determined, and I kept my plan secret. Not the easiest thing at that age. I didn't even let it slip to my mother when I matter-of-factly requested that she take me to the drugstore so that I could buy something, with my own money. I was adamant about her not walking with me to the gift aisle, or standing near me at the cash register. She was amused, and definitely curious, but respected my secrecy.

On Father's Day, before my father could have his first cup of coffee, I was on the scene with excitement, presenting my poorly wrapped and overly taped gift to him. When he opened it, he looked at me with a bit of confusion on his face, surely wondering why I had chosen this little bull for him. Someone mentioned that he had gone to Princeton, not UT. There was laughter. Too young to comprehend college mascots or hook-em horns, I wasn't so young that I couldn't realize that my gift had meaning I did not know or intend.

I was gutted. Fat tears began to spill from my eyes and drop onto my quivering lower lip.

Seeing my reaction to his reaction, my father's about-face was immediate and complete. He shushed the teasing and began to gush over that bull, how thoughtful I was and how impressed he was that I had picked it out and used my own money to buy it. On and on he went about how pleased he was with the gift. In an instant, I was put back on top of the world.

Not content to stop there, he elevated the little glass Bevo to the highest of honors in our house by placing it on a shelf in his office, where it sat among other select items given or collected over his life, items of which he was particularly proud or fond.

Where it sits, still.