I lost my dad in August, 2020. Yesterday was my second Father’s Day without him. Does it ever get easier? I started this post with intentions to talk about how I’ve grieved the loss. But I don’t want to linger in sadness. Let’s talk about the good stuff instead.

The Builder

If my dad had a theme song, it would be “Slow Ride” by Foghat. In fact, that was his ringtone on my phone for at least a decade. Not only does it fit his easy-going style, but I have a specific memory of riding the Music Express at the county fair with him when I was a child while that song was playing.

To be completely honest, I’m sure my dad would have preferred a son. He inherited his father’s carpentry business and probably wished he could have taught and passed it on to a son of his own. We loved each other dearly, of course. But, like a typical girl, I was closer to Mom than to Dad.

Dad was the strong, quiet type. He wasn’t great at expressing emotion, but our love for one another was clearly understood. He expressed his love in ways that made sense to him: building me an epic professional “treehouse” in my childhood backyard, then recycling that treehouse lumber about 15 years later into a lovely picnic table for my first home. Woodworking a keepsake clock for my Christmas gift, and a beautiful display case just because. He crafted his love with his hands.

The Guardian

I have lots of great childhood memories out at the lake because of Dad. Going tubing behind his speedboat (and he thought it was funny to make tight circles until the tube flipped us off). Taking us out fishing and sharing his monstrous tackle box. Making sure our Fourth of July’s were epic with fireworks (and a really, really loud cannon that I think he enjoyed surprising us with). When my friends and I accidentally set a field on fire with our poorly-aimed bottle rockets, Dad was the first one on the scene with blankets to start smothering it.

Provider. Protector. I always felt safe when I was with him. I never doubted his ability to build something I needed, fix something if it broke, or give solid advice on anything constructed or mechanical.

I shadowed him on Take Your Kid To Work Day for school. He gave me the “important” jobs like snapping the chalk line or marking his measurements while he remodeled a house.

When we had to make mousetrap cars for middle school, I went straight to him for help. (If I remember correctly, our three-wheeled contraption ended up winning the contest for distance.)

When the starter went out on my first car and I was stranded in a parking lot, he was the one I called for help. Sure enough, he got it started.

Dad taught me how to handle and respect firearms. He helped me learn and practice shooting. He pushed me to get my concealed carry permit, even insisted on paying for it. He helped me pick out my first gun. He taught me how to use his reloading bench not long before he passed away.

The security and defense of his family was priority, and just one more way he showed love in his own unspoken way.

The Stoic

Dad battled chronic pain from rheumatoid arthritis for nearly 20 years. Debilitating pain tortured him daily. It was frustrating and heartbreaking to watch him battle this pain constantly. A big dude, 6’2″, high school state wrestling champ, faithful Harley Davidson rider and enthusiast, always the image of strength his whole life, lived as a slave to his pain and multiple health problems through the last part of his life.

When we moved to South Carolina, we chose a split-plan style home to share with my parents. I’m extremely grateful for this arrangement, especially in retrospect, as it allowed me to have my dad in my life daily for the last six years of his life. I tried my best to function as his caregiver, and of course we butted heads. I was frequently frustrated at his behavior and choices that went directly against his best medical interests.

I felt angry with him for not trying harder. It’s taken me these couple years to realize that the anger I felt was really just bottled up love, disappointed. Unspoken.

I’ll always be my dad’s daughter.

Love and miss you, Dad.