When I think of my Father, I think of a funny, loving man. A man that truly loved and cared for his family. The man who let me curl up on his chest when I was little, the man who let me lay my head on his “piddow” (his stomach). The man who tucked me in night after night, with a hug and a kiss, and said “night, night.” The man who chased monsters out from under my bed. The man who called me his “dolly.” The man who supported me through all of the craziness of childhood, especially the infamous teenage years. The man who would not be angry at me when I used to sneak up on him while he was reading the newspaper and swat them high into the air, startling him. The man who helped me to build snowmen. The man who encouraged me to learn how to water ski, and didn’t shame me when I didn’t want to do it again. The man who attended every play that I was in. The man who insisted that I, a small child, ride in the convertible along with the little league queen while he was the chauffeur for the little league parade. The man who would take time out of his busy day to skip rope with me. The man who spent countless hours putting together things for me for Christmas. The man who, for at least a year, made my brother and I bacon sandwiches for breakfast each and every school day, until we rebelled. The man who would let me order fried chicken meals that were too large for me when I insisted that I could eat them. The man who told corny jokes. The man who worked hard, and then worked even harder making our home a nice place to live. The man who whisked us away every Christmas morning for a three hour drive to visit our relatives – when I wanted to stay home and play with my new toys (it’s funny, I don’t remember those presents, but I sure do remember the precious time spent with my Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, and cousins – those were some of the very best times ever). The man who never gave up on his children. The man who would push me on the swings and send me up high enough that he could run underneath me while I was up in the air.
The man who walked me down the aisle. The man who always took an interest in everything I was doing. The man who was there at the hospital the day that my son was born. The man with whom I spent endless hours talking on the telephone. The man who attended every function that my son had at school, every t-ball game, and most every soccer game that my son played. The man who would take my son to the park, swings, and buy my son ice cream. The man who came to our home every Christmas and every birthday party for my son. The man who accompanied me to a specialist to help determine why my son was so ill as a child. The man who purchased a yard stick for my son’s first birthday, and used it for years to chase him all over the house, saying that he was going to give him a “trimmin.” The man who could get the look on his face, the kind that a cat makes when they are going to act crazy, and then whoop real loud – signifying that he was going to start chasing my son around – then when done, my son would come back and say “Do it again Grandpa.” The man who would also put a “flea in the hind” (give him a little pinch on the bottom) of my son during their escapades.
The man who honored his parents, and frequently made the three hour (one way) trek to take care of them and visit them when they were failing in health. The man who as a teenager worked jobs so that he could purchase Christmas gifts for the entire family the year that the family didn’t have money for Christmas. The man who served his country honorably in the Navy during World War II.
A man who was a honest, caring, Christian. My Father, truly a special man and a gift to me from God. Thank you Daddy for all the love, laughter, and support. I could not have asked for a better Father. My father died back on November 28, 2002 and I miss him to this day. Happy Father’s Day in Heaven Daddy. I will see you again.
“Abyssinia, Yugoslavia, and Greece” – One of the corny things that my Dad said for “I’ll be seeing you.”