Dear Dad,
Sometimes it’s hard to find the right words to say, so, this Father’s Day, I’m writing you a letter. You know me… I’m not the best at telling you how I feel. You probably know where I get that from, and, no, it’s not Mom. So instead, let me share some memories that might help you understand what I mean.
Remember, Dad, when I was a kid, and you’d take me out on Saturday mornings? You’d wake me up early to get ready while you brewed a cup of coffee. I don’t imagine I’ve ever been to a café where the barista has been more of an expert than you were with your coffeemaker. The aroma filled the kitchen as you poured it into a ceramic mug I’d made for you at summer camp. Somehow, that mug lasted until I went to college, and I can still see you taking one last, slow sip from it before we left the house together.
On cool fall mornings, you’d take me fishing. Even on the cloudiest day, you’d get down to business by baiting your hook, wading out into the stream, and putting on your sunglasses. You always said they helped you spot the fish without them being able to see you. I was never sure if that was one of your trademark jokes or if you were being serious because you surely did take your fishing seriously! I was just thankful that you were able to laugh all those times I snagged my line on a rock or managed to get it hung up in a tree branch overhead, and you’d have to take out your trusty pocketknife to cut it free. But soon enough, I learned how to cast by watching you effortlessly flick your wrist and whip the line. By the time I could wade out with you, we’d catch enough fish between the two of us to fill our cooler and bring home a big dinner.
On sunny spring and summer Saturdays, you’d like to get the yardwork done early, and you’d make your way to the shed after your coffee. I’d follow you out, trying my hardest to be your helper. Looking back, especially now that I have a “little helper” of my own, I realize I probably slowed you down more than I contributed, but you’d always let me tag along. While you carried an armful of tools, I could at least bring out your work gloves. I’d take them off the hook by the door, walk behind you in your footsteps, and slide my hands inside your gloves, imagining what it was like to be you. You let me pick up sticks while you cut the grass, and once the lawn was pristine, the leaves and twigs were raked, and Mom’s flowerbed was weeded, you would kick back in your lawn chair and finish what was left of your ice-cold drink. I might have let you relax long enough for you to catch your breath, but soon after you finally sat down, I’d be begging you to make the most of our fresh-cut playing field and set up a yard game like Bocce ball or bag toss. You let me sneak in a few wins over the years, which I certainly gloated about, but no matter the outcome, we traded more high-fives and pats-on-the-back than finger-wags during our friendly family rivalry.
On rainy Saturday mornings, we would stay indoors, and it was just as well because those were the days we’d make breakfast together. I felt like a Michelin-star chef when you let me mix the pancake batter. While I stirred away with a cyclone’s fury, you’d remind me to slow down and take it easy as you calmly laid strips of bacon into a cast-iron skillet. As it began to sizzle, you’d take out your set of chef knives and slice fresh fruit to top the pancakes I was working on. Although we’d prepared a simple breakfast, when we set the table with our offerings along a couple jars of maple syrup and honey, it felt like you and I were treating our family to a feast fit for royalty.
Rain or shine, regardless of what we’d gotten into earlier in the day, most of our Saturday afternoons led us to Mast General Store. There, we’d both pick out our favorite candy. You always filled your basket with old-fashioned root beer drops, and, of course, you’d let me take one or two. I wasn’t crazy about the flavor back then, but now, they’ve become my favorite, too. Once we’d made our choices, we’d roam through the store with the worn wooden floorboards creaking beneath our feet, and you’d tell me how they sounded the same then as when you walked across them with your dad. We’d stop by the outdoor section so you could eye the gadgets and utility tools, then make our way to the cooler to grab a couple of glass-bottled sodas. Then, we’d settle in the rocking chairs by the checkerboard for a game. It was the best way to spend just a few more minutes together before heading home for the day.
We’ve made a lifetime of special memories, Dad, and they mean even more when I look back on them today. I wouldn’t trade any of them or the time we spent together for anything in the world. I know you never ask for gifts for yourself, but with this letter, you’ll find a journal so you might write down a few of your own memories. Consider it a gift to me and your grandkids.
Here’s to many more stories for us to share with love on Father’s Day!