The Hockey Hall of Fame

-edited from Misha's Strange Wonderings:

Today Meg and I hung out, went shopping. Then I convinced her to go with me to the Hockey Hall of Fame, which is always fun. Though, it was a tiny bit sad. It was just one of those times when I really missed my dad.

The last time I was at the HHOF, I bought my dad his beloved Bruins shot glass and I promised him I'd buy him either a Blackhawks or Wild shot glass next time. Of course, by the time next time rolled around he'd been gone almost eighteen months.

That wasn't the only time I missed him. In the replica Montreal Canadiens dressing room, I had a strong wave of nostolgia/sorrow. I remembered the first time I ever visited in the HHOF and him telling me to spit on the floor (which he had done when he visited a few months earlier).

Also, just being there reminded me of him. My mother was a big part of my love of the game (she's a more rabid than my father ever was), but my father gave me the love of knowledge. Every stat, every story that I've absorbed, well that's all him. He had the same intesnsity about anything he liked, the same ability to absorb whatever he heard, though he did call me a dork for how much information I chose to absorb--still, I know taht secretly he loved it.

Sometimes it amazes me how much I still miss him, but it shouldn't. My father was very important to me and he helped make me who I am today. Missing him is natural and it would be worse if I didn't miss him, at least I think so.