Today is a pretty day with a cooling breeze, lots of sun and a temperature of 71°. The heat and humidity will arrive next week. Some of the state will be hot enough for record heat, but here on the cape we will be cooler. For that, we bless the ocean.

When I was a kid, my father was the great mosquito hunter. During the hunting season, he carried a rolled up newspaper. I remember him waking me up when he stood on the bed swatting mosquitos on the ceiling. If any had already bitten one of us, my father always commented. “We’re too late.” The ceilings always had squashed bugs and a bit of blood.

I love the sounds of summer, the leaves rustling in the trees, the birds greeting the morning, the buzzing of the insects and the clicking of the cicadas, the male cicadas. One other summer sound sits in my memory drawers, the slamming of the back screen door. When I was a kid, we had a wooden screen door. I remember the wood was painted green. All summer long you could hear my mother, “Don’t slam the door.” Usually her warning was too late. My screen doors click closed. I find that perfectly dull.

I have been the epitome of sloth. My to do list just gets longer. I did go to the dump yesterday. It was really crowded. That was my only accomplishment. My deck is cleaned but still needs unveiling. I have put that on the top of list. I want to enjoy my morning coffee and newspaper outside. I want to light my chiminea with the piñon wood I have. It smells so amazing when it burns. It always reminds me of my trips to Santa Fe.

My parents had the best dog. Her name was Bebe. She had been found with other pups in a box at the dump. Her breed was unknown. She was black with curly fur. If people asked, my father always said she was a Canadian sheepdog. They believed him. Bebe loved to ride in the car. If she heard keys, she was right there with a mournful look in her eyes. I’d take her for a ride around the block. Bebe fetched rocks. Her kingdom was the front yard. She seldom wandered. The one time she did, the dog officer arrested her. She would be released the next day, but that night it thundered. Bebe was afraid of thunder. My father went to where Bebe was being held and tried to get her as he was afraid for her. He couldn’t get her. She came home the next day to hugs and kisses. Bebe was the last dog my parents ever had, but they doted on mine, spoiled them rotten!

This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father always said he never snacked, and my mother would roll her eyes. He kept chocolate under the couch, hidden from everyone else, but, we, everyone else, knew. He loved Pilot Crackers covered with butter. Hydrox was his preferred cookie. His vanilla ice cream was always doused with Hershey’s syrup. That man did love his chocolate.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day.