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. 

Rain was predicted, a shower, but this morning so far belies that prediction. The breeze is wonderful and cooling. The high will be 74˚. The sky is a light grey. The sun was here earlier but has since disappeared. I have plans to go out today, to the dump and to Agway. I just have to rev up enough energy.

Saturdays were the best days when I was a kid. The whole day was mine, and I always spent it wisely having fun and exploring. I knew all the streets in my town. I had my favorites. The street behind the town hall had the horses’ barn. I used to stand outside and checked the horses through the door. I always wished for a closer look. To get to the zoo, I always biked around Spot Pond which was a reservoir. I could see a small island from the road, and I dreamed of sneaking there and camping. That I had no boat and no camping equipment didn’t stop me from dreaming. My first view of the zoo was the rocky, grassy enclosure with mountain goats and some deer. The zoo was small, but I was a kid and didn’t notice. The animals held my attention. My favorite was the elephant. The Girl Scout Camp was in the woods across from the zoo. I used to go into the pine woods, follow the wide path and come out in the next town, on the Fellsway Way. I rode home from there.

My house in Ghana was up the hill just a short way from town. I used to borrow a bicycle and ride to the market. Downhill was easy. Uphill was a chore. I usually walked the bike part way home. Sometimes I took the school’s bus into town when the driver was picking up the mail, but I’d have to walk home. Usually, though, someone stopped and offered me a ride. I never turned them down. Most people in town knew me. I was one of only a handful of non-Ghanaians, of Europeans as the Ghanaians called any white people, who lived in Bolga. I never rode that bike anywhere except to town. If I needed to go further, I usually took a mammy lorry.

One year when I was much older, I think in my thirties, my parents bought me a bicycle for my birthday. I rode it on the bike trail to P-Town a few times. It was a long but pretty ride. I remember getting off the trail and going down some streets thinking they were a shortcut. I actually got lost on the back, unfamiliar roads, but I kept riding. I remember being cold and a bit nervous. It was getting dark. I finally came out at a spot I knew and hightailed it home.

My bike is still in the cellar. I haven’t used it in a long while. I like to think I might just haul it out of the cellar, jump on it, pedal and go for a long ride.