I saw all these trucks parked along a street where you don’t usually see them and I had to wonder if they were dads stopping over for Father’s Day.
Mine died in 1990, but he was…
A farmer’s son, who worked hard while going to high school. A high school basketball star. An Army-Airforce football player right after WWII. A Golden Gloves Heavy Weight regional champion.
A friend to strangers. A factory worker. A mechanic who owned his own service station. A great dancer, with my mom in his arms. A traveler who took us on great camping vacations and eventually went to Europe—even lived there for two years—which no one else in his peer group was doing.
A guy who prefaced advice to his kids with phrases like, “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but…” and really meant it. A man who acheived his dream of paying off his house.
A regular at the breakfast counter in the town of 150 where he’d owned his service station…so much so that his coffee cup stayed empty in front of his usual stool while the waitress and his friends began to worry, on the morning that he died.
I still miss him sometimes.
Who's your daddy? I love to hear about him.
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