For All Of The Things He Was

My father died when I was thirty five.    I was lucky to have him around for 35 years.  I know there are a lot of people who don’t have their dads for long, or at all.  So 35 years was a blessing.  I think of my dad every day, in some way, when I see something that reminds me of him.   And there is a lot to remind me.  Especially when I look in a mirror.

Dad to me, and my 7 siblings, Jim to the rest of the world.  I think the 8 of us all saw dad differently.  But there are a few things that are certain.  He was handsome.   I am not being biased because every one who talks to me about my dad tells me he was.  And yes, I would say so even if they didn’t.  So maybe I am being biased.  I’m okay with that.  For all of the things that dad was, or that dad did, I do believe his greatest gift in life was being a father.  Not because I am one of his kids but because I heard him say this more times than anything else he ever said.  Well, except for “make me a bacon sandwich please” or “get me a beer please”.

Dad taught me things I never got to thank him for.  And things that I didn’t even know I learned from him.  Dad use to own a bar.  He was a great bartender.  He would listen, smile, do his job.  When he was not at the bar I never heard him say anything about his customers.  Nothing negative.  His ‘bar’ was a pleasant place.  When he had a heart attack at a young age the patrons helped out.  I remember him being out going, entertaining, and fun at the bar.  At home I remember him being quiet.  Reserved.  Not always, but often.  As I look back, I think he loved the bartending but it drained him.  As an adult my job involves me talking and interacting all day long.  When I get home I sometimes don’t have the verbal and emotional energy to interact with my own family.  I feel like I am relating to dad, understanding him more, and thanking him more since he is gone then I ever did when he was here.  I understand more of course as an adult, how much it took out of him to do what he did.  And I appreciate him more for it.

I remember dad lying on the floor at home, with the headphones on, flat on his back, with his hands crossed on his chest.  Or, hands crossed under his head.   The music would be so loud I could hear the music well enough to sing along to.  He would keep his eyes closed.  We would have to step over him to go about doing our thing.  He needed alone time.  That was hard to do with 10 people in the house.  But when he needed it, he found a way.  I still see him lying there.  When I look back I am amazed at how much music was in our house.

Dad use to do things with us that I didn’t think other kids got to do.  He took us to national forests and had us climb the fire tower.  He took us to Tinker’s cave and we slid and hiked to the cave and played in the splendor of what I swear was untouched by any other human.  Our own little discovery.   He had us building dams on the old family property, riding motorcyles, taught us to shoot guns and drive stick shift.  We cooked on hibachis and open fires.  We played cops and robbers and jumped from hay lofts.  He let us, and encouraged us, to get filthy while we played and would then take us to Red Lobster and not be embarrassed about his dirty and stinky brood sitting in the middle of the restaurant.   He fixed us shrimp soup.  He taught us the joy of singing to Peter, Paul and Mary, and “Dead Skunk In The Middle Of The Road”, Johnny Cash and Johnny Horton.  He drove us around in old trucks with us bouncing around in the truck bed.  Back when that was okay to do.  And I swear we started the peace sign movement by driving up and down Interstate 70 flashing the peace sign at all of the semi drivers.  Dad loved bacon, loved beer and loved God.  And he loved us.

As we got older he left his beer can calling card if he went to our homes and missed us.   He tended to leave those calling cards even if he was visiting and some of those calling cards weren’t found until years after he had left them.  He enjoyed hiding those calling cards in people’s chandeliers, toilet tanks, ceiling tiles, anywhere he could quickly hide a “card” and be unseen doing it.  His practical jokes were painless and give us much to chuckle about all these years later.

He taught us to be responsible and trustworthy.  When dad felt he had failed us, he told us to our face.  He didn’t mind so much what other’s thought, but he was extremely concerned about what his children thought.   He feared shaming us.  I don’t remember ever hearing dad talk prideful about himself, only about his kids.

Dad wasn’t a perfect man.  And that was okay.  The man that he was did his best to love us and guide us.  I never doubted that.  His love for us was a lesson all it’s own.   I was blessed to have him.  And I miss him every day.  The best things that dad did for us and gave us I still have.  And always will.  They are lessons that can not be taken away or forgotten.  When I see him in my thoughts and prayers I see him with a quiet smile.  And I see him at peace.  I love dad.  I love the man he was.

Thank you Dad.  I love you.

Me and Dad

Me and Dad

 

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48 thoughts on “For All Of The Things He Was

  1. jmgoyder says:

    What a beautiful tribute to your dad, Colleen. Mine died when I was 19 – thank you for the comfort and wisdom of this post and much love to youxxxx

    • Thank you Julie. I appreciate the love, and the connections we understand with one another. It’s something that even now gets me on occasion…. But I smile when I think of him.

  2. A fantastic tribute to your father, Colleen. He sounds a wise and wonderful man and father.
    ❤ ❤ ❤

  3. Gibber says:

    Sounds like you had an amazing Father. Sorry you lost him. I’ll bet he would be incredibly proud of you and all his Grand and great Grand kids. 🙂

  4. ksbeth says:

    he sounds like a wonderful father. you are right, that you are lucky to have had him for those years, though it’s never enough. )

    • It sure feels weird. Living your “entire” life with a parent, your ‘entire’ existence to that point that you lose them. And wow, does the world feel different.

  5. I was bless with a very loving supportive father. No surprised you were as well. You look like your father, a very handsome man he was. ❤

  6. Tara says:

    First of all, you’ll be happy to know I got through this without tears, I don’t know how. I was literally on the edge of my chair-reading fast at first because I couldn’t wait to read your thoughts, then slowing down because I wanted to savor them, not wanting the story to end. This is a perfect tribute and every bit true. Thank you, a million times thank you for this. And thank you for the picture, it is my absolute favorite of Dad.

  7. cvnadagroup2017 says:

    like

  8. Adorable picture. You were lucky to have had such a wonderful man in your life.

  9. Lili says:

    He was handsome!

  10. It sounds like your dad made sure you and your siblings had a wonderful childhood. He sounds like he was a wonderful father and a wonderful man. This was a beautiful tribute to him Colleen. You were an adorable little girl and I can see how much you look like him. Thank you for sharing your dad with us!

  11. russtowne says:

    I love your tribute to your dad. It speaks simple truth so powerfully that tears welled up as I read them.

  12. Incredibly touching, and you are one fortunate person to have had such an admirable person as your guide. Lucky you. Lovely post.

  13. reocochran says:

    I really liked this picture you sketched through well chosen words of your Dad. He sounds like he gave a lot of his energy and outgoing self at his bar. You can relate to this need to come home, unwind and be still.
    Now, I can picture you Dad lying on the floor with his ear phones on, relaxing. Then, I can think of the practical joker leaving his “calling cards” in funny and bizarre locations. This really reminds me of how stories from Jean Kerr or James Thurber wrote about family life, with humor and love.
    I also think his ability to switch gears and allow you all to play and be just kids is really swell, Colleen. Especially brought me smiles about going into untouched parts of caves and then, going out to Red Lobster. His sense of humor, personality and truly good character shone through all of this.
    You were blessed for the time well spent, but I am also sure there are days or times you wish he could have been there much longer.
    Colleen, this post was almost the longest one I think I have ever seen you write. Hugs for you and thanks for sharing such a warm and fuzzy Father’s Day tribute with all of us.

    • 🙂 It is a longer post isn’t it Robin. 🙂 Thank you for such a fantastic comment. Dad was one to do different things with us. We didn’t go ‘far’ but where we went was different and interesting. We learned a lot by DOING. In both work and play.

  14. e says:

    So loved this…beautiful. Pics were too…e

  15. tric says:

    Here’s to absent fathers. We are lucky to have had them in our lives. This was a beautiful tribute. I’m sure he’s delighted with it.

  16. markbialczak says:

    Thank you, MBC. Thank you and bless you, my special friend. Happy Father’s Day to your beloved dad.

  17. niaaeryn says:

    Sounds like a terrific dad. I love that he made people feel the warmth of him, and admire his love of bacon. That is one of those deep memory places. Thank you for sharing it. And agreed, a handsome man. 🙂

  18. April says:

    This was a beautiful tribute to your dad, it reminded me of some of the things we did with my dad.

  19. What a beautiful tribute to your father Colleen, I feel sure that he is very proud of you. He did a great job as a father and were a handsome man. Easy to see that you are his daughter 😀

    • Thank you so much Irene. He is a looker. 🙂 He always made sure to tell us he was proud. I don’t know if as a child I understood how important that was to hear. But, that I can remember it now, means everything.

  20. inmycorner says:

    What a beautiful tribute indeed. Thank-you for sharing that, Colleen. It gives such great insight into why YOU are such a special person – the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

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