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. 

Last night the rain was heralded by thunder, a few large claps. I expected sheets of rain but, instead, it was small drops. I had to turn down the TV volume to listen. That first rain lasted all of five minutes. When it returned later, the rain lasted for a while.

The morning is lovely but only 68°. I shut the window behind me, Nala’s window from which she surveys the world. Her nose prints are the giveaway. The high today will be 72°, but I’m not complaining. That is just fine.

Saturday has always been my favorite day of the week. When I was a kid, it was the morning to plunk myself down in front of the TV and watch all the kid shows. With cereal bowl in hand, I’d sit on the rug close enough to the TV to go blind. I am not a fan of westerns now, but I watched them then. I loved Annie Oakley, a woman sheriff. I remember all the words to Happy Trails to You, the ending of The Roy Roger’s Show. Truth and Justice was the Lone Ranger’s mantra. “Yo, Rinty!” needs no explanation. I didn’t realize it back then, but there were several orphans, Rusty in Rin Tin Tin, Joey in Fury, The Circus Boy played by Mickey Dolenz of The Monkees, and Tagg, Annie Oakley’s brother. The Cisco Kid wore the best embroidered shirts, and I loved his sombrero.

My mother bought cereal we liked. My brother liked Cheerios, and I liked Rice Krispies. We never ate Corn Flakes. We always thought Corn Flakes were for adults. We had Frosted Flakes instead. I liked the little boxes of cereals. They gave us choices and could also be used as a bowl. My mother always bought whole milk.

Saturdays had a routine. In the warm months, after morning TV, we’d take off for the day, usually on our bikes. We varied our destinations. There were neat things to see in all directions. We had trains one way, the zoo and Spot Pond in another, the sheepfold and Wright’s Tower on the Fells, the farm with its dairy cows and, finally, window shopping uptown. Spot Pond was a reservoir so we had to stay off the water. I always wanted to put a boat in the water and paddle to the island filled with trees where I could camp and hide. In the next town over, I used to sit on the bench in the station and wait for the train, for the whoosh as it reached the station. At Wright’s Tower we could see all the way to Boston.

Dinner was the same all over New England on Saturday nights: hot dogs, beans and brown bread. The hot dog rolls were slit at the top, the mustard was yellow, Howard’s piccalilli graced the dogs and the brown bread, the B&M brown bread, came in a can. I purposely left out a description of the beans. I scorned tradition and never ate them.