Dad's a Wonderful Guy

My Dad and I as Beetlejuice
for Halloween in the late 80's

"Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" "Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" That's what he would make us yell, his very own version of "Mercy!" during tickle fights, whisker burn, or my favorite, the "stop hitting yourself" game where he'd control our arms and make us bonk ourselves on the head, all in good fun. No amounts of "Stop! I'm going to pee my pants!" or "I think I'm going to puke!" shouted through fits of giggles would release us.

And it’s true, my Dad is a wonderful guy.  He’s also hilarious, a great storyteller, a hard worker, critical thinker and so much more, it only made sense to share a bit of my appreciation for my pop on Father’s Day.

My Dad was outnumbered from the start, having three girls to deal with before he finally got a boy.  But he didn’t let us be prissy girls and some of my fondest memories are of my Dad packing up all of us kids and taking us to fish off the shore on Bald Eagle Lake.  He taught us how to cast, bait our hooks, even dig a hook out of a fish’s gut.  And when we were old enough, about 11 or 12, he taught us how to clean them. Skills I don’t use often enough lately, but I’m still grateful for them.  

At about that age we got to cut down little trees with handsaws at our family’s tree farm, drag them to a brush pile and in the cleared areas, plant hundreds of little Black Walnut saplings. It was hard work, but pretty cool to see a forest that we planted.  He’d take us to the park to practice basketball in the small indoor court, which was usually occupied by a half dozen tall black guys playing full court, most under 6 foot white guys with 3 or 4 kids in tow would have been nervous about asking them to share the court, and they weren’t going to unless you pushed the issue, but not my Dad.  Us kids would spend the next hour or so practicing lay ups and free throws while my Dad impressed anyone watching by hitting three point and half court shots, we also learned you have to ask for what you want, and a confidence goes a long way.

My Dad was always serious about us trying and doing our best, when we played softball he’d be out in the yard playing catch with us, or the whole family would hit the park to bat and field.  In school A+’s were a must, and boy, we tried.  We all did well, even if it wasn’t all A+’s, but Dad never let us get too proud of ourselves, he was kind of our anti-ego.  He always thought we could do better, and because of that we always tried.  It may seem a bit harsh, but if you think you’re the best, you might use it as an excuse to stop learning and growing.

My Dad was in charge of teaching us about all things with wheels, I remember vividly trying to learn how to ride a bike.  We lived on a busy road in St. Paul and our backyard sloped down to our garage.  We spent many a terrified, tearful try rolling accelerating (without even having to pedal) toward the man door of the garage as we tried to learn to ride, I think that was called motivation.  Years later he taught me how to drive, the terror was all his this time, 20 years later he’ll still bring up our death-defying trip to my first drivers test, when I took a 25MPH clover leaf exit at 60MPH on two wheels.  Not sure what the big deal was…we made it just fine, didn’t quite pass my test though.

I inherited a lot from my Dad, I remember being 8 years old, standing the length of the kitchen from my parents trying to read a box of Raisin Bran and discovering I had my Dad’s bad eyesight. I spent the rest of my childhood wearing chunky, plastic framed glasses looking like an animated cartoon bug.

I also got his sense of fun and humor, from making up silly songs, to teasing the kids.  You haven’t heard “Tip toe through the tulips” until you’ve heard my Dad sing it.  He also has his own “special” (loud and crazy) way to sing Happy Birthday to the grand kids.  Every once in a while, a quiet afternoon would erupt into full blast “Black Magic Woman” by Santana and “Hair” by the Cowsills when my Dad decided to put his old records on, and us kids thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I also inherited my Dad’s ability to worry oneself sick, as evidenced by my acid reflux and TUMS soaring stock prices.  In the pre-cell phone era, my sister and I worked. I was at a grocery store and my sister at Kmart, just up the road.  My sister didn’t drive, so I was often her ride.  One night I got off at 9PM and because my sister wasn’t done until 10PM I just hung out for a bit.  My Dad, expecting us home shortly after 9PM went into panic mode and decided to go out looking for us. By the time he got to Kmart we were already on our way home, safe and sound.  He didn’t have to worry so much, we were good kids.  And we’d do anything to avoid a vein bulging, butt chewing from Dad. 

While I don’t have a bulging forehead vein, I hope, I realized I had my Dad’s temperament the day I heard myself yelling about tiny scraps of paper, one of his biggest complaints. The paper was the kind that falls off the edge of a sheet of notebook paper when you pull it free from the wire.  Trying to keep the house clean with a pack of kids is nearly impossible, and I started to see scraps of paper everywhere.  They must be invisible to kids, I never noticed them when I was young and my kids sure don’t see them.  I had to laugh and call my dad to tell him I could finally see the little scraps of paper.

My Dad’s also the perspective behind my politics, although he’s never preached to us, he’d just point us in the direction of the information and let us come up with our own conclusions.  He still sends us articles to read, and if ever the subject comes up on the phone, the next hour and a half is always an impromptu “solve the world’s problems” brain storming session.

You know how they say “Work smart, not hard”?  My Dad works smart and hard, which rubbed off on all of us kids, we don’t make excuses when there is a job to be done.  He’s also a handyman; an electrician by trade, but a mechanic, plumber, and contractor when need be.  He added on to our childhood homes so each of us could have our own rooms, he made us all dressers, one of which is still used by my daughter today.  Now that he’s retired, he takes requests, making toy-sized wooden garages for my boys, a baby cradle for all the granddaughters, picnic tables for each of us and more.

As I see my husband try to balance work with time for the kids, I realize the struggle my Dad endured to make sure we had a great dad and role model, and that we were prepared for the world when it was time to take it on ourselves.

He even found a little fun in that preparation, when it was time to head off to college, my Dad did the “here’s how to check oil/fill washer fluid/change tire” refresher course. He also put a bucket in the trunk with supplies we may need: sand, tire gauge, air pump, rag, etc.  It was only after I had been gone awhile that I went to check the oil and found the rag was an old pair of his tighty whities, which were only made more hilarious with a big brown streak of oil on them.

You should meet my Dad, he’s a funny, smart, strong, wonderful guy. Thanks Dad, for all you do and all you’ve taught me over the years!