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My dad.

Every time I think I’ve said all there is to say, a funny memory pops up. Or, some slow-blinking, head-nodding, poignant life lesson.

I hope this happens for the rest of my days. I think it will.

I’ve written quite a bit about the man who was and continues to be a source of inspiration and sorrow mixed with good memories and a long lasting impression. What more can I possibly say about the man who died suddenly in June, before he turned 60, the man who met all of his grandchildren but didn’t watch them grow up.

They’re all amazing people, dad. You would be so proud.

He certainly enjoyed the wild things. He liked the woods and the lake and the critters. Before cell phones and celebrity culture and “influencers” and ‘grams and mindless scrolling, he was an influencer in his own right. He influenced me just by being around. He showed me how to really enjoy the things that bring the most human satisfaction. Things like simply being outside working the dirt or creating something from nothing instead of being hunched over, glued to a beeping, hostage-holding screen.

A hearty laugh. Some weird dance moves. He looked up when he was thinking, trying to put his thoughts into words. I do the same thing. I read sentences in the air before writing them down. My brother and sister both inherited his verbal delivery—the way he explained things with gestures and movement. Watching their shoulders and mannerisms when they speak, especially after releasing the perfect witty zinger with the “eye-sparkle-head-tilt-smile” and that moment they wait for you to “get” what they just said is a near-perfect reminder of how my dad always told stories.

Expert tomato grower. Legendary, in fact. People still talk about his tomatoes. I’m not kidding. Same goes with his fishing prowess, especially on the ice. People still talk about this too. Seriously, who remembers so many specific things about dear ones long passed? The folks who knew my dad bring up his hobbies. They love reminding me how much my dad loved what he loved. His duck carving. His motorcycle. Oh, and they always tell me how much he loved my mother, his polar opposite, the woman who made him a better, more palatable man.

He loved music and was heavily into jazz earlier in his life. Jazz is about as sophisticated as it gets, so dare I say he was tad sophisticated too?

Introverted. Bright. Handsome. He cleaned up well and was quite the classic 50s heartthrob in his youth. Smart wayfarers, wool Pendleton jackets, New England style flap hats, slim pants. The way he held a cigarette, legs crossed, leaning against his first car…he looked cool before it was cool to look like him.

He loved his food. He loved his drink. He smoked for far too long. This trio of vices predicted an early grave, I’m sure of it. Like all of us, he had his healthier years, his moments of clarity about what he was “supposed to be doing” to keep his heart in shape. I know he thought he had more time to sort things out. We all think we have more time. Until we don’t. His early death taught me to keep fighting for my health, even if it feels hopeless sometimes.

My dad. He pardoned my mistakes. He hugged the heartbreak out, too. He taught me things without talking. He set the example of how a father should always be. Just there, with no fuss or fanfare. Simply present. Like a rock.

As I got older, he showed me his human side. Hurt feelings and insecurities. Anger. He was selfish sometimes, but mostly he was a tender, non-judging observer. A man who could solve my problems for me but instead let me figure things out on my own because he believed I could. A man who loved me fiercely, but actually liked me too. The man who told me I could write a book.

What more can a daddy’s girl say about a dad who did the big things like send me to college, help me buy my first car, walk me down the aisle, and make me feel special and smart before telling me I was also pretty? A dad who did the small things like pay the bills, make sure we had a great Christmas, teach me how to ride a bicycle, take me camping, make me work to earn my allowance, set the house rules?

I say small things, but there are no small things.

Dads out there: please do not ever underestimate the influence you have on your children. Love them completely, just as they are. Be tender, but firm, and have a sense of humor. Make all the dad jokes you can muster, and for heaven’s sake, laugh at yourself. Life is absurd! Show them how to be human by owning your mistakes, and show them you are reachable, tangible, and yes, always just “there.” Do not think for one second they are not absorbing what you say, and more importantly, what you do. Your actions will always be the loudest voice in the room.

What more can I say about the man I came from? His impact shows up daily in how I conduct myself, how I savor and enjoy the things I like, my work ethic, my daily lists, my gardening prowess, my funny, quirky side. I try to honor him through my writing, but I also find solace and peace knowing the spirit of his presence is almost the same now as it was then: he is still my rock.

My dad has been gone for a long time, but I think I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping him alive. In my heart, for sure, but in yours too.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads and father figures out there doing the small, big things.

You are the rock, and I see you.

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