My dad and I are often divergent from typical.

When Robert Frost wrote about those two roads diverging in the wood, my father and I always take the one less travelled by. "Daddy-daughter" is too cutesy and conventional to describe us, even though we did begrudgingly attend those dreaded dances together years ago. We only went so my mom would have adorable pictures for her frames, and so that we could sneak out early and eat sushi. Complex, intricate, and challenging are much more accurate in attempting to define our relationship. Every Saturday morning in the fall, we walked our dog Tiger in Ridley Creek State Park. The crisp autumn air, the sun peaking through the trees, I can still remember those long, enduring walks with my dad. I always prepared myself for hearing a story from my dad that I had already heard once before. Maybe he would detail for me again how his friend in college, Flash Gordon (perhaps the last man on earth whose personality deserves the nickname Flash), skipped every single calculus class and still managed to get a better grade than him. Or maybe it would be the riveting tale of how in middle school he dropped his brand new clarinet down the front stairs of his high school and the sheer miracle that there was only a small dent on the case. He says I never listen to his stories. The hills of Ridley Creek were torture on my legs as I gripped Tigers leash to stop him from attacking bigger dogs and made the climbs much slower than my dad, the marathon runner. Those hills along the path, the winding turns were familiar terrain to Dad and I. Tigers panting echoed the rapid beating of my heart as I huffed and puffed up the steep inclines as my sneakers beat against the uneven pavement. Hot chai tea latte ran down my throat soothingly, breaking up the cool autumn air in my lungs. Dad always liked stopping at Starbucks for chai on our drive out to Ridley Creek, he also liked stopping there on the way home to get my mom a skinny vanilla latte to distract her from the fact that our walking has inevitably prevented him from doing housework. Dad has always been a huge proponent for chai; I think its due to his mad obsession with nutmeg. I still remember him telling me years ago the first time I tried it, "Try this Julie, it tastes just like fall". Often I would reach down and feel Tigers soft coat run through my fingers along the walk, and sometimes, I

would just let Tiger attempt to drag my limp body up the incline. Tiger is the missing link between dad and I. Our love for him was unmatched and equal; both of us would willingly take a bullet for that 15-pound poodle. Whenever our voices raised at each other, he would remind us with his pebble black eyes that we were family: he is our shield. My fathers voice rang through the air, quizzing me on movie trivia, or sometimes poking fun at my older brother. Dad has always been tough on Robbie. Robbie didn't want to go on walks, he didn't want to discuss movie trivia, and he definitely didn't want to hear stories twice. My dad raised him to be an independent man and was surprised when he became one. Dad's oaken tone was mesmerizing to me though, and his hearty laugh would make me smile and keep my legs moving. Down another hill again as he started discussing episodes of Gilligan's Island. Dad used to watch the show while scarfing down a peanut butter sandwich with a glass of milk when he came home from high school cross-country practice growing up just outside of Philadelphia. I would always try to listen to hear if my dad ever sounded winded, but all I could hear was Tiger and I panting. Once dad asked me on one of our walks which Gilligan's Island character I relate to the most, "I don't know, dad" I droned at the question, "Ginger is a movie star, but Maryann has that whole girlnext-door thing going for her. Plus I've never really been a fan of red hair." He chuckled first before responding, knowing my disdain for the hair-color. "I don't know, Julie Kay, I think you've missed the mark on this one." "How?" I asked, extremely perplexed. I know full well that I am no Ginger Grant. "You're not really thinking about this, now, I want you to really think, can you do that? Let me try to spell it out for you now: which character on the island loves to read, tries to fix the unfixable, lectures everyone, and is a good friend?" I paused before speaking, afraid he would tell me I was wrong again.

"The....Professor?" "There ya go," he said smiling, quickly veering away from being sentimental. "Did you know that the Professors actual name is Roy Hinkley? Very few people know that, it helped me win a Gilligan's Island trivia game once at a bar in Jersey." I had heard the story before, but from then on I never forgot the Professor's real name. Dads voice always ran as smoothly as the creek that ran next to us. I could never decide if it was because he was a skilled long distance runner or a skilled long distance orator. We trudged up another hill as we bounced off of each other our top ten movies. Nine out of our ten were usually in accordance, but we fought ferociously over our number one picks. I always made the case for Dead Poet's Society while my dad tried to convince me that The Godfather was the better pick. I'm a sucker for Ethan Hawke and he's a sucker for Al Pacino. Needless to say, we always ended our debates agreeing to disagree. The calming sound of the running, glistening water coupled with my fathers voice was serene. I could hear the wind rustling as it fought its way through the branches and leaves of the forest surrounding us. No matter how many leaves were on the tree, the wind managed to make its way to cool my face and sway Tiger's long ears. As we walked, my dad seemed completely at peace. I could tell he cherished these peaceful moments, which were so few and far between in his childhood. Dad fought when he was my age to find a way out. With a mother who ignored him, a father with an illness, and a sister who dropped out of college, he had to carry the weight of his family's expectations on his shoulders like Atlas holding up the world. Around the bend and at the top of the biggest hill came the shadiest part of the walk, where the trees thickly lined both sides of the pavement. Dad never got to go to on walks like these with his dad, or go to a Phillies game, or even simply toss an old beat up ball around in his backyard with him. My dads mom kept her sick husband on a tight leash. Certain loves can suffocate and isolate. When my brother and I were born, my granddad broke the chains my Omi bound him with. He never missed a sporting event, a band concert, a play, or a birthday party. My dad finally had the chance to see him be the father he knew he could be. When his father passed

away 6 years ago, a darkness branded into my dads good heart, a permanent pain that I would give anything to remove. No fight is ever ended without scars. Dad always wore his fluffy, black North Face jacket. I always wanted to wear it, the soft texture felt like it was hugging your torso. I would constantly berate my dad and tell him that the coat was too girly for him in an attempt to swindle it away from him. I never got to wear the jacket, but he gave me something better. Every night before I went to sleep, I would sneak in to my parent's bedroom. My mom was always in her office working late, but Dad had an early bedtime. Sometimes I swear on the inside he is actually 90 years old. He would open his arms and hold me there against his shoulder, as I smelled the distinct cologne on his clean, white T-shirt. The heated blanket would feel perfectly warm against my skin as I stretched my arm across his chest and breathed deeply. He relished telling me funny stories, teaching me vocabulary words, detailing an obituary he had read that morning, or even sometimes just telling me what he had to do the next day as I would stare at his unshaven, tired face wishing I would lie there for hours. We knew our long walk was at a close when we could here the rushing, roaring sounds of the waterfall at the end of the trail. As I saw the water pouring over the edge, I could see my own energy quickly fading away. Tiger would stand beside me, very proud of himself for being an elderly dog walking 4 miles. His jet-black nose gleaming with drips of moisture, and his soft, pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth before licking my pants. Ready to go home bud? my dad would ask Tiger as he shook off all the leaves clinging to his apricot fur. I would take a deep breath, my body relieved at the sight of the end of the trail. Mostly though, I never wanted the walk to end. I never wanted to go back to the reality of our house. The house was a battleground, not a sanctuary. The wandering paths of Ridley Creek turned into strict battle lines, the creek morphed into a deep trench, and the trees became shelters to hide behind. We tended to rub each other the wrong way more often than not, with screaming matches often being our weapon of choice. Although physically we look absolutely nothing alike, under the skin lies the same temperamental, impatient, sarcastic, cynical, dog loving,

creative soul. At our best, we are the only ones who can make each other laugh hysterically. At our worst, we cut each other to the core with our words. Ridley Creek State Park was our brief truce in a week of relentless, nonstop battles. A time for us to always have in remembrance of whom we truly are, and how close we are as father and daughter. At the end of the walks, I wanted to take all of our combined insecurities and shortcomings and throw them into the rushing water. I wanted us to always be as we were on those Saturday mornings. Sure my body felt ready to collapse and fall into the roaring water, but the rest of me wanted to sit on the bench with my dad and then keep walking. I wanted to forget about the times when I have missed curfew, or failed a test, or left my room in complete disarray. I didnt want to picture my dad purple in the face as we hurl painful insults at each other. In Ridley Creek, we were more than just father and daughter. We were two equal souls, two best friends walking side by side joined by our little furry friend without a care in the world, because the world couldnt follow us up the winding paths of Ridley Creek.