My dad had his 83rd birthday this week. This picture of him tells a lot about him. He likes to go fishing, and when I was growing up, he wanted a boat, but did not have the budget for one. He built one for himself in the garage. It took him three years, at least that is what I remember. That showed me patience and perseverance, not to mention responsibility in that he did not spend money he didn't have to get himself a toy.
That boat was a part of every vacation after that, following the loaded station wagon on our way 'Up North.' I liked it because he would bring our bikes along in the boat, so we could ride country roads while away from home.
Every day, my dad got up earlier than we did, and drove off to some mystery place called, "Work." My mom got up with him and packed him a lunch to carry in the metal lunch bucket. Does everyone have memories of waxpaper wrapped sandwiches, folded just so, the drugstore fold, my mom called it, to keep the bread from drying out?
That short time every morning was probably the only time my parents had a few quiet moments to chat together. Sometimes I liked to get up early and catch Dad before he left, but mostly it was their time.
My dad was not an executive. He came home with dirt embedded in the creases of his hands that didn't come out until he retired. But my dad came home after work, took care of his family, didn't drink or run around. In my mind, that makes him a hero.
I love you, Dad! Happy Birthday!
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