This is just one man's opinion of what it means to be a dad. My childhood was memorable to me in many ways. My dad was mostly around, except when he traveled for his job, but he never forgot to bring my sisters and me a little gift he'd buy at the airport store. A coloring book or puzzle, and always a Whitman sampler box of chocolates. And he never once forgot to get my mom some perfume.
My dad was someone I could always depend on to be seated at a band concert or school play, and sometimes showed up breathing hard as mom took his hand and squeezed it with a smile on her face. I can remember seeing him, still in a suit and tie, leaving his office, trying not to be too late.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.
Mike 2026
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