What’s The Best Piece of Advice You’ve Ever Received?

This is the writing prompt for today and right off the bat, I thought about the last piece of advice my Dad gave me.

My Dad has always been my hero. I was a true daddy’s girl. I went to him before my Mom when I needed advice, had gotten my heart broken, or when I knew I was in trouble. And I was always in some kind of trouble … ALWAYS!

To me, my Dad was larger than life. He was a true American cowboy. We had horses and rode them often, not just for pleasure, but also to make sure the countryside around us was safe from any sort of trouble, both animal or human. He knew the ins and outs of any gun he picked up and made sure my brother and I also knew every aspect, not only for the hows and whys of what they could do, but to make sure we knew they were dangerous and to NEVER point a loaded gun at anything or anyone unless we were positive we could live with the outcome.

My Dad was also an actor and stuntman at Old Tucson Movie Studio just outside of Tucson, Arizona, where we lived for most of my growing-up years. He was an extra in so many western movies that were filmed there during its “heyday”, he also did what they called fast gun scenes for some of the bigger western stars who either didn’t know anything about a pistol or couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, let alone a moving target. Yes, the bullets fired were absolutely and always blanks, but there was still a risk of powder burns from firing the gun.

He was an active member of the Screen Actors Guild and was still receiving small royalty payments from some of the films before he passed away. My brother still has his scrapbook, where he kept all the pictures, awards, and simple contracts from his acting career.

He was also the “street marshall” and not only played his part quite well in the “gunfights” the Old Tucson actors put on multiple times a day for the enjoyment of the people visiting Old Tucson, he also did his own stunts. I remember the first time I saw him fall off the roof of one of the buildings during one of those gunfights. I honestly thought he had gotten seriously hurt. He didn’t, and after the show was over and hands had been shaken, autographs signed, and pictures taken, he showed me how he had learned to roll and land in a “sand trap” that had been dug under where he was going to fall to “cushion” his landing.

When he went to work for the Pima County Sheriff’s office he never lost his cowboy ways. You could often find him in uniform on his trusted mare Hasty, patrolling on horseback some of the washes and “coyote” routes that were used to smuggle all sorts of things from Mexico into the US. I don’t know if it was by chance or if it was something he was able to negotiate, but even in uniform, he still wore his boots and cowboy hat when he was at work.

I can go on and on and on with my memories of my dad, because there are so many of them. But I need to get to the part where I answer the question for the writing prompt. So ….

Right before I moved to Maryland from Arizona, my dad was sick, really sick, and I knew, and so did he, that he wasn’t getting better this time. He had wasted away to absolutely nothing. And it broke my heart to see him in that condition. As I said, he had been my hero all of my life, and to me, me was larger than life.

The last time I saw him, we both made our peace with each other, apologizing for whatever we had argued about last. And the very last thing he said to me was ” Vickie, no matter what you do, I want you to be happy. So, don’t carry all the weight, and JUST BE HAPPY”.

It’s been 23 years since that conversation, I’ve made a bunch of mistakes during that time, and when I thought I was happy, I was just chasing shadows. I never caught up to happiness in any form. But today, after 17 months of pure unadulterated hell that I’ve come out of on the brighter side, I can tell you I FINALLY took my Daddy’s advice and I AM HAPPY.