Dad

Every day I think about how I was lucky enough to have had a great Dad. And  while I've (almost) always known how lucky I've been, the older I've gotten, the more I've appreciated it. For the first couple of days after Dad passed away, I would jot down any random thought I would have about him. I didn't want to forget.

I've never really had the strength to look at this list since then, but I've never forgotten. I hope I've been as good a Dad as he was. For this Father's Day, I'll share the list with you.

This is who my dad was to me:

Dad understood what I was talking about. Dad was on my side.

Dad was interested in me.

Dad listened.

Dad thought I was special. Dad made me feel special.

Dad went with me on cold winter nights to look at the stars and the moon through a telescope.

Dad took me to the movies.

Dad was my friend.

Dad took me skating at the town forest.

When I was little, Dad would get on his knees past the end of my bed and he would talk to me through a puppet. Dad comforted me and helped me cope with my fears. Dad let me know that it was ok.

Dad stayed with me when I had my tonsils out. That night when he went to go get a bite to eat, I watched out the hospital window. I hoped to see Dad… but I didn’t. When Dad got back, we watched “That Was The Week That Was” and “What’s My Line” together. Dad slept on a couch next to my hospital bed.

Dad read to me at night.

Dad once read Pinocchio to us, a chapter a night, and it was better than TV.

Dad taught a series of night classes, once a week. He would stop at a deli on the way home and bring me a Turkey & Salami on a bulky roll.

Dad taught me the meaning of “perspective”.

Dad felt that anyone who repeatedly shuts off their lights on Halloween night deserved an “egging”.

Dad had a great sense of humor.

Dad had warm hands.

Dad listened.

Dad liked to paint.

Dad loved Mom. One starry night in Needham when Mom was away, we were sitting on the front porch alone together. Dad was staring off into the distance when he told me that Mom was “a real lady”. I don’t know if he realized that he was saying it out loud.

When I was little, Dad had made a great window box scene of Santa’s sleigh. I used to look at it, and put myself into the scene.

Dad always had the movie camera ready on Christmas morning, including the bright light. We had to wait our turn opening presents, and then we would have to hold our present up.

Dad once dug a deep splinter out of my finger. It hurt a lot. I think Dad hurt too.

Dad sniffed when he was nervous.

Dad used handkerchiefs.

When Dad would grill, I got to be his “tester”. On Sunday evenings, Dad’s clothes smelled smoke flavored.

I once broke my bedroom window with my secret agent spy gun. When I told Dad, he didn’t get mad.

Dad took the train to work and home again. Sometimes I got to go with Mom to pick him up.

When our dog died, we all cried. Dad cried too.

Dad loved Christmas music. When I think of “The Messiah” and Harry Belafonte, I hear Dad singing along.

Dad took us Christmas shopping. We got to see the “blue tree” and the mechanical Santa at “The Crest”. Dad would let me pick out a corsage for Mom at Woolworth’s.

Dad would drive us around to look at Christmas lights.

Whenever I grill, it never tastes as good as Dads.

When I was little, sometimes I would fall asleep while watching TV in Dad’s bed and he would have to carry me into my bed. Once I pretended to be asleep so I could feel Dad carrying me.

When I was little, Dad would scratch my back at bed time. I had a narrow bed. I was glad the sheets were tucked in tight because sometimes Dad would lie down next to me and there wasn’t enough room for us both. I would be hanging off the side of the bed with only the tucked in covers keeping me from falling on the floor… Dad would start to drift off to sleep as he itched my back. I would have to give a wiggle to keep him going.

Dad almost always smiled.

I love Dad.

I always thought I would see Dad at least one more time.