Father's Day without Dad

This is my first father’s day without a father. We lost him last winter—just a week before my birthday. He was 85. He was my only true hero.

Not to make your day into a downer, I only say this to say some things I wish I hade said, or said more of or said in person. While mine is not here to read this, I pray your dad is alive, well and indeed, is your hero, as mine was to me. If some of these things sound familiar, I urge you—beg you—to say them out loud and straight into your dad’s face, while you can.

Hey Dad. I wish I had said thank you, more often or, in some cases at all, for a few things I took for granted as a child. Before I was even in the plan, you were a real life hero; saving the world in Guadalcanal, Fiji, the Tonga Islands and other places, so far away from home. You were so brave. You were 20. You were a child. You were a man.

I want to thank you for creating me—for contributing your genes and family tree, to the life I eventually inherited. A life I have loved and from which I have drawn deep joy.

Then, (and I have pictures to prove it), you held me in your arms, bathed me, diapered me, rocked me and seemed to enjoy having me as your son. I have no memory of this, but Mom says it was so. Somehow, deep inside, I think it made a difference in the man and father I became.

You taught me honesty and how a man’s value is measured. You gave me a moral compass and admonished me to always go north—upward—onward—forward—straight. To let my heart guide my intentions and to let my mind, guide my actions. To be gentle and respectful to women. This, taught not by words but in life—in how you always treated mom with the class and honor she deserved.

You took me camping and taught me to value and protect nature. Taught me to catch fish, but to release them unless I was truly hungry, so that others could enjoy the big ones! To shoot straight and true, to love my country and to laugh loud and often and the ridiculous things people do and say. Thanks.

For playing catch; for letting me try a sip of your beer; for showing me how to build things; for teaching me how to drive; for always being impressed with me; for always making me laugh when I didn’t think I could. And for teaching me how to do world-class armpit farts.

Thanks, Dad, for the extra twenty bucks you always slipped me when I had a hot date in high school and for the greatest cheeseburgers in the world. Once, when we were out of food, you turned me on to stale bread cereal. It was delicious. I had no idea it was all there was.

You were a cop, in a very dangerous city at a very dangerous time and you made very little money. Yet somehow, Christmas and birthdays were very, very special. You worked exclusively on night shift, but you still found time for my brother and me, before we went to bed and you went to work. Thank you, for laughing at our worries of you being hurt or killed. You made those fears dissolve, with your huge laugh. You always had a joke about some dirt bag you arrested who did something really stupid. We never knew how scared you really were at times. Thanks for hiding it.

Thanks for the years I had you, Dad. For your timeless advice, your stock of priceless wisdom and your 85 years of good and wholesome influence on me. You were a giant, peaceful, honorable man. Never a headline was printed about you, but you were famous and revered and magnificent. A real role model. The real thing. You tanned my butt when I needed it and hugged me with your whiskered face, when I needed that, which thankfully, was far more often. I can still feel it. All of it.

I miss you, Dad. Without qualification and without reservation, I loved you. And Lord how I know—especially now—how much you loved me.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Sorry for all those dumb cards. Say hello to God. I will see you again and we will share a beer.

Or two.