He is my Dad

He wore orange and black tiger print sweat pants on Sunday afternoons.

He’s a faithful Cincinnati Bengal fan.  (He will show you his bald head as proof of his lifelong devotion.)

I remember the day when there was a bad play (or a bad call?) and he got so mad he threw the piece of bologna he was eating against the wall. 

Every year, on Christmas Eve, after we were tucked in bed, he sneaked outside and rang bells.  We just knew Santa was checking on us. . . until years later when we learned it was really him.

There was an evening when our family of five was enjoying a dinner out (It was a Wednesday night).  Next to us sat an elderly couple, quietly enjoying their own meal.  Somehow, I’m not sure how, he learned that they were celebrating their wedding anniversary.  As we left, and without that couple knowing, he paid for their meal. 

My sister recently told me a story of the time he colored with her.  He made the sky red, the grass blue, the sun green.  He taught her a lesson that day. . . it’s okay to be different. 

He took us to Disney World–but not for ‘free’.  For months, my brother and my sister and I put dimes in a bank labeled “Disney Dimes”.  He taught us the value of a dollar. . . and a dime.

He liked Goofy.  While at Disney he talked with Goofy.  He told the silly dog, ‘everyone around here thinks Mikey’s the boss.  I know the truth–you’re the king around here.’

He would sit and watch the Road Runner and laugh and laugh and laugh. 

When he laughs, I mean really laughs, there is this husky, breathless quality to it. . . it’s one of my favorite sounds in the world.

He gave me consequences and upheld standards. 

When the bill came after our meals out he gathered us close so we could see and then he taught us how to calculate a tip.  He taught us the important things.

He taught me that life unfolds and that the journey is more important than the destination.

He taught me to appreciate the simple things. . . the breath in my lungs, food on the table, and a hard days work.  Classical music, an easy Sunday morning, the sound of water hitting the side of a boat.  I could go on and on. . .

He always learns the names of his waiters and waitresses and talks with them. . . not at them.

He loved my mom with a fierce and faithful love. 

If you meet him, you will feel immediately comfortable.  That’s his gift. 

He made decisions that I didn’t understand when I was young–but now I know, were the best for me.  He saw around corners that I couldn’t see around.  I’m grateful that he never took the easy way out.

In all my life, I’ve never heard him complain.  Not once.  From him I learned that gratitude is a way of life.

He is a man of few words, so when he speaks the words hold power.  Maintain your standards.  Have class.  Don’t be afraid of failure.  Enjoy simple things.  Take in the moments.  Follow your passions. Count your blessings.  Work hard.  Be yourself.  Don’t take yourself too seriously.  Never lose your sense of humor.

He didn’t just speak them. . . he lived them. 

We are alike in so many ways and yet we are different.  He let me be different. 

He was my advocate, adviser, counselor, hero, mentor. . . but not my friend. 

He couldn’t be my friend. . .

. . . he was my Dad.

He understood what so many don’t. . . parent’s can’t be friends.  No, not until later. 

Later is now. 

Now, he is my Friend.