A bitter cold has settled into the Pine Belt of Mississippi this week, and it’s the kind of chill that makes you appreciate the sweltering days of August. Down here, cold weather feels like an event, something that calls for a hearty soup on the stove and extra layers by the backdoor. As the temperatures drop, I’ve found myself thinking about my daughter more than ever. Maybe it’s because the weather brings back a memory—a snow day, of all things. Or maybe it’s because we’re only weeks away from her wedding, and I can’t seem to keep my emotions in check.
Snow in Hattiesburg is a rare and fleeting thing. Growing up, we’d get a dusting every four years or so. It wasn’t much, mostly slush, but it was enough to get kids like me and my buddy Chris out the door in a hurry. Some of us didn’t have gloves made for snow, so we improvised. Bread bags over our hands, rubber-banded at the wrists, did the trick. Snow was something special— a big deal— no school, an excuse to run around outside, and the kind of day you’d talk about until the next one came along.
That magic came back years later, not as a boy’s adventure but as a father’s memory. My daughter was small, maybe six, when the snow came to our street. It was a real snow by Hattiesburg standards, enough to blanket the yard and call off school. Her mom bundled her up and she and I went out into the front yard and built a snowman—her first. She named it Ethel. Why she named it Ethel, I’ll never know. It still makes me laugh, though.
That day stands out as one of the earliest memories of just the two of us. Eventually, we went inside to warm up, and I created a vegetable soup from what we had in the pantry and freezer. I didn’t just throw together any soup—I used scraps of ribeye and filet mignon that I had lying around. I figured if I was going to make something to warm us up, it might as well be good. Those beef trimmings gave the soup a richness that paired perfectly with the vegetables we had on hand. And when I realized we were out of tomatoes, I reached for a bottle of Bloody Mary mix—a substitute born out of necessity that turned out to be the key ingredient. That soup wasn’t just warm; it was memorable, and it still pops up on the features menu at the restaurant today. Ultimately, it’s the memory of where it started makes it great.
Now, years later, the cold is back, and my little girl isn’t so little anymore. Named for my grandmother, Holleman is getting married in just over a month. Thinking about it, even in passing, has a way of stopping me in my tracks. A song on the radio, the sight of childhood photos, or just driving down the road brings on a wave of emotion these days.
She’s everything I could have hoped for in a daughter: kind, compassionate, funny, and fiercely talented. Whatever she set her mind to—from cheerleading to theater—she excelled. She’d dive in, give it her all, and then move on when something new caught her eye. She’s always been observant, with an eye for detail that serves her well today in her design career. She’s creative, capable, and has impeccable taste, which she’s used to make one of the most important decisions of her life—choosing a partner. She nailed that one.
My grandfather used to say, “You can judge a man’s wealth not by the size of his bank account, but by the depth and breadth of his friendships.” By that measure, Holleman is one of the wealthiest people I know. She has a solid group of friends who adore her, support her, make her laugh, and bring out the best in her. Watching the way her friends rally around her through the years has been one of the greatest joys of my life.
There’s a memory that’s been coming back to me often these days. When she was two, we had a morning ritual. Just before I’d leave for work, I’d play “Dancing Queen” on the CD player, pick her up, hold her in my arms, and she would lay that sweet little head on my shoulder. We’d spin slowly around the room for a couple of minutes— sort of a slow dance to a fast song. No words, just us, just for a couple of minutes, and in those moments, time stood still, and everything felt right with the world.
But time never stands still.
I’ve been thinking a lot about moments like that as her wedding approaches. The walk down the aisle, the father-daughter dance, and all the emotions in between—I’m not sure how I’ll keep it together. But I’m ready to be proud, to be present, and to celebrate the incredible woman she’s become.
The seasons have a way of reminding us how quickly time moves. The snow melts, the soup pot empties, and the little girl who built a snowman grows up. The memories endure, slowly becoming a part of who we are. If I could, I’d give just about anything for another snow day and slow dance with that little girl. One more snowman. One more bowl of vegetable soup. But life moves forward, and so will she—gracefully, beautifully, and with a heart full of love.
In a few weeks, her mom and I will see her take the next big step, and while I’ll probably be an emotional wreck, I’ll also be the proudest dad on the planet. The memories we’ve made together remind me that life isn’t about holding on to the past, it’s about cherishing it while stepping forward with hope and love. Like a good pot of soup, the memories we’ve made are simple but full of warmth, nourishing us as we move forward with hope and love, knowing that some things—like the love between a father and his daughter—only grow richer with time.
If I’ve learned anything from those moments—whether it was building a snowman, creating a soup, or spinning around the room with a tiny head nestled in the crook of my neck—it’s that love stays with you, no matter how quickly time seems to pass.
Onward.
