One of my earliest memories of my dad was waiting to surprise him when he came home each day from work.
I’m sure he saw me way before I saw him, a wiggling 2-year-old trying to hide face down on the living room couch. When he reached the top of the stairs, he’d pretend to look for me.
“Where’s Kelly?” he’d say, which would send me into shrieks of delight as I popped up to be found.
He’d swoop me up into a bear hug and twirl me around, flipping me upside down for a few thrilling seconds. Sometimes he’d sit me on top of his shoulders and race around the room or bounce me on his back like I was riding a wild bronco. I never worried about falling off or being dropped because I knew, even then, my dad would never let anything bad happen to me.
As a young girl, I would sit on the step in our garage watching him work on his latest car project. He’d show me things like how to change the oil or put on the spare tire, skills I admit I still haven’t practiced much.
As a teenager, he was the parent I’d ask first when I wanted to do something I thought Mom might say no to. “Dad said it was okay,” I’d assure Mom when she asked what I was doing. Sometimes he caught on to me and made me ask her first.
But no matter how much dads try to protect their kids from getting hurt, they grow up and make their own life choices. There have been times I am sure my dad wished I would have picked a different path or made a wiser decision. But even in the toughest times, I knew I could call him and he would offer the best advice he could for the situation I was in.
Even long distance, his voice felt like a big hug, lifting me up and telling me I’d be okay.
He walked me down the aisle twice, tears in my eyes as he locked arms with me and squeezed my hand, leading me toward a brand new life. When my first marriage fell apart, I met up with him over a couple of beers and he listened as my heart broke in front of him. He couldn’t fix it, but just knowing he was there for me made me feel stronger.
I could write multiple columns about the things I’ve learned from my dad, most of them by watching the way he’s lived his life. One memory has stuck with me for more than 40 years. When my sister and I were young, he asked our pastor to give him the names of three older church members who might need some cheering up. We baked chocolate chip cookies and delivered them to their homes, shyly handing over paper plates to these women we’d only seen in a pew at Sunday service. It seemed so simple at the time, but it’s a lesson in kindness that has stuck with me forever.
Now that he’s retired, he still spends his days tinkering with the old cars he loves. I’ll stop by when I see the garage open to say hello and find out what he’s up to. Some days he’s off sorting papers for the Lions Club or repairing their mobile eye clinic van. I’ve watched him sell cotton candy and mix pancake batter for fundraisers. He still helps run an Alzheimer’s support group seven years after he lost his beloved wife (and my mom) to the disease.
I can’t believe Dad turned 80 this year. (He can’t believe how old I am either!) And while he can’t carry me around on his shoulders anymore, he’s given me the best gift I’ve ever received by just being my dad.