You've been gone a while now, Dad, but I still have countless memories of us together. I recall the crazy little things, like trying to roll up a cigarette pack in my t-shirt sleeve or opening a bottle with my jackknife—the important things you taught me.
I remember you teaching me how to shave with a kids' shaving kit, which included a shaving mug, a bar of soap, and a wooden-handled brush you used to lather your face. I'd stand next to you at the sink, watching what you were doing so I could do the same. When we were finished, you would pat my face with a few drops of aftershave so I smelled good for the ladies, he'd say in just a whisper.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.
Mike 2026
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