The earliest memory of my dad was clinging to the hairs on his chest as he walked into the Gulf, waves splashing me as they crashed against him. I’m guessing that I was two-years-old. Given the opportunity, I did the same with my children. Stalwart and strong, he was my protector from any danger.
Dad was an army man, a sergeant in the National Guard. The armory was nearby, and I watched him from the porch of our house as he drove a Duesenberg army truck in the caravan that paraded down our street to a weeklong training at Camp Atterbury.
Riding my bike, a red Rollfast, he held the seat as I pedaled hard through the yard. I don’t remember falling, so my first launch into freedom as a child was exhilarating.
I remember mom serving squash for the one and only time as a side for dinner, you know, that mushy stuff that may be pawned off as orange mashed potatoes. Dad didn’t like it, so I didn’t have to eat it.
I remember Dad giving me my first baseball mitt, bat, and ball. I was a Little Leaguer, and he was my coach. Upon coming home from work, we played pass together. His glove looked like an antique with fat fingers and no web, catching the ball in his palm. I wouldn’t have been a pitcher without his encouragement.
My dad formed a Boy Scout troop, and I became the leader of the Rat Patrol, named after my war heroes from the episodes that aired 1966-1968. One week of his vacation was to take me and my brother to summer camp, a time to live in the woods, make a fire by friction with a bow, spindle, and board, act out skits at the bonfire, swim a mile, and practice first-aid and water life-saving techniques.
My friends and I were going to build a fort in a tree of a tree line that divided a cornfield. I showed him where it was, and that same day after he left, I fell out of it breaking my arm in a spoon break and compressing three vertebrae. He rescued me.
Dad bought our first house when I was twelve, a brand-new, three-bedroom ranch style with a full basement. He made a Ping-Pong table and Grandpa gave us an old, miniature size pool table. We didn’t have air-conditioning, and it was cool in the basement to play during the hot days of summer.
My dad showed his emotions. He stood for what he believed in and shed a tear when the National Anthem was played as he stood at attention with a military salute.
He drove my girlfriend and me to the movies on my first date. I felt like I had a chauffeur. Fast forward three years, and he caught me skinny-dipping with my high school girlfriend in her pool while her parents were on a trip – date cop!
If there are words that I remember him saying often to me it would be these, “I’m proud of you, son.”
The day I went to college, Dad and Mom said goodbye, Mom with tears and Dad with a smile. He knew his son was ready to become a man.
When I remember Dad, he was always there, always supported me, always encouraged me. I will always be his son, and he will always be my dad.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad! I miss your smile. I miss sailing with you.
Sail on, dear Dad in heaven.
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