Above all else, my father loved his family. Almost as much as us, he loved Father's Day. He loved his birthday. He loved Christmas. He loved being with those of us who adored him, who hung on his words, who got the hugest charge out of him.
He loved, quite frankly, being the center of attention...or being so very happy for one of us that his cup, as he'd say, runneth over. Such was the case in this, my favorite picture of him, taken at my brother Ben's wedding.
Dad's last Father's Day was in 2012, which my sister Susan and I are celebrating with him here. Our sweet Daddy died 46 days later.
Not a day (or even half-day) goes by that I don't miss him; don't hear him jingling coins in his pocket, don't hear him saying "I love you" (which he did all the time) or quoting poetry (which he also did all the time). He's still the first person I want to tell so much to, or to ask about something. Nobody told a story like Dad, and though I probably heard most of them about a million times, I'd give anything to hear even one of them one more time.
Through the years, I've written a lot about him. He was just so...quotable. Endearing. Engaging. Loving. So perhaps as a gift to him, here are a few of my favorite essays I've written about him on this, my seventh Father's Day without my dad (a.k.a. the All American Boy, Mr. Wonderful, Dadaw, the Grand Poopaw). Happy Father's Day, Daddy. On his ah...determination (OK, stubbornness):
I'm a writer who loves to run and who is basically optimistic, albeit a bit hard on myself.
My son (that lovable kid here) may have spent too much of his summer vacation neither reading books not cleaning out his car, but he does have a great sense of humor. In other words, he usually thinks I'm funny.
thegratefulrunner.com
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