I think of my dad every day but on this day, there is a particular vacancy, because Dad isn’t here and I can’t hear him sing those old songs, see him dance a jig, or bake him his favorite pie. But, I can remember. And I do.
I’ve written about him a lot, both here and in my books. Only in the mysteries, he wasn’t called by his name, Bob Day, rather, he showed up here and there as admirable traits in male characters, especially the heroes. Because, to me, that’s what he was: my hero. He was, and still is, the pattern by which I measure all other men. And I can’t resist mixing a little of his honesty, strength, and trustworthiness into the character traits of fictional heroes.
Dad’s old work-day hat hangs on my hall tree. I don’t need to look at it to be reminded of him but somehow, I feel better knowing it’s there – more secure, I guess. If he were here, I’d bake him his favorite pie, coconut cream, and get him some sort of small gift. He’d give me a hug and say, “Much obliged.” I miss him every day, but particularly on his birthday.
I don’t remember Dad ever yelling at me or storming through the house. He spoke quietly but with conviction and we, his children, knew that he was right. We didn’t argue. He always carried through on what he said he would do. Not only to his family, but to all who knew him, his word and his handshake were as good as a written contract. I never heard him utter a curse word or tell a lie. And, lest you think he was formidable and unyielding, let me say that he enjoyed a laugh as much as anybody, loved to sing and dance an Irish jig, and his favorite pastimes were playing checkers and horse shoes. When I was a child, I would climb up on his knees and listen to the ticking of his pocket watch. I don’t know why that was such a big thing to me; maybe it was because I felt completely safe and comfortable when I was near him.
Dad was Irish through and through. Maybe that’s where he got his love of horses. He could size up a good horse in no time and felt a lot more at home in the saddle than he did behind the wheel of a car. We used to joke about Dad’s driving. He had one speed in town and the same speed on the highway. He liked to turn corners without braking which sent his passengers grabbing for door handles
Dad loved playing horse shoes and, although he has been gone thirty years, in the side yard of my parents’ home there are still indentations where horse shoes hit the ground around the stobs. His favorite plant of all the flowers was the yucca in the corner of the yard. I think it reminded him of the western states. He and Mom had lived in Texas and Arizona in earlier years and Dad’s favorite kind of book was a western. He liked Zane Grey and his favorite television shows were Gunsmoke, Wagon Train, and The Real McCoys.
Many times now I’d like to ask Dad’s thoughts about a problem or how he would handle a situation. I’d like to hear more about his childhood and his parents and grandparents. Dad was even privileged to know his great-grandfather Hembree and I would love to hear some of those boyhood stories but, sadly, I didn’t think to ask.
Anyway, this morning, I remember Dad and all the things he stood for. I remember that goodness and right still exist in this world. It is comforting to know that there are people for whom honor and truth and strength of character still matter. I remember the words of St. Paul, “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.” (Philippians 4:8) That might be what Dad would say, if he were here. It’s his birthday, but it seems to me that I am the one who received the gift, the things that he taught me.
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