Lovingly honest tales of dear old Dad

Being a father can be a tough assignment.

When The Columbian asked readers to contribute memories and tales for Father’s Day, we knew we’d get more than Hallmark cards. One traditional sort of dad can be a stern, uncompromising fellow. Another traditional dad is, well, long gone. But many more dads are the fun, friendly, reliable and upstanding sort — somehow finding the sweet spot where “leader/teacher/lawgiver” shares a comfy chair with tenderness and compassion, good humor and love.

Roles and rules for dads seem to be under widespread review and reconsideration these days. Maybe that’s long overdue.

In honor of Father’s Day, we offer these loving — and honest — recollections of Dad.

Queen upon his shoulders

I did not meet my dad until he came home from World War II in the Pacific when I was 2 years old. I learned to say “Daddy” to his photo.

I felt like the queen of the world when my dad carried me on his shoulders. It was he who tucked me in at night, always with the challenge, “Bet you can’t bite your big toe!,” as I promptly proved I could. He taught me to tell time and print the alphabet. He helped me write letters to Santa. I called out for Daddy when there were monsters in my bedroom. He made me my first kite from thin sticks and newspaper. 

With his ever-present jackknife, he removed my slivers and even “made” my first pair of sandals by cutting off the tops of my leather shoes. I excitedly ran to show Mom! Decades later, I understood we couldn’t afford to buy those things.

When I tumbled out of the back seat of our car at age 4, Dad jumped out, picked me up, checked me out and sat with me in the back seat while Mom drove. He taught me to drive and how to change a flat tire.

When I was in my 30s, he apologized for spanking me so hard when I was little, and broke down crying. I told him I had no memory of that. He never told me he loved me, nor I him. That’s how it was back then. But I knew beyond a doubt. Actions can speak louder than words.

—Carol Rose, Vancouver

What matters

I was 20 years old when I came home from college and told my dad that I was in love and wanted to get married. My boyfriend of the time was not of the same religion.

My dad, who was raised an Orthodox Jew and even attended Yeshiva (Jewish high school), said to me, “Do you love him?”

I answered, “Yes.”

He replied, “That’s all that matters.”

— Lynn Johns, Fairway Village

Driving Dad

My dad drove a taxicab at night and a school bus in the early mornings and after school. He tried to get some sleep during the day, from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., and we had to be very quiet. If we woke him up during the day — lectures would surely follow.

Dad had a fifth-grade education and had to go to work to support his family in Missouri when he was around 12 years old, thanks to the Great Depression. He came west with the Civilian Conservation Corps and helped build roads in Yellowstone Park. He also drove a summer tour bus in Yellowstone Park and later drove a taxi in Helena, Mont., which is where he met my mother, who was a taxi dispatcher on weekends.

My guess is, Dad would have been a big-time businessman, if he could have gotten an education. He did end up buying and operating 12 school buses. He was elected county commissioner of Montana’s Lewis and Clark County, appointed Montana Civil Defense director and built and remodeled a dozen houses. I am proud of him and think he did well in life. I used to ride with him in his cab on Friday nights. His passengers called him Mac.

Those intimate moments with Dad will remain special to me forever. I miss him nearly every day.

—Ron McKnight, Camas

Planting seeds

I lost my dad twice; first to divorce at 10 and then to death at 15. He was an abusive alcoholic to my mom. But he was a loving father.

I am now 73 years old, but I become more aware every day of his influence on my life. While he was a dismal failure as a husband, he was stellar as a dad. That was a difficult concept for a child, and only time has allowed me to acknowledge his weaknesses and embrace his gifts.

Dad loved nature. He loved taking me into the woods and explaining about the plants and creatures. He loved teaching me — everything from how to design and build a house to how nature works and he delighted in my interest. He was not afraid to hug me and express his love, something Mom found difficult. Now, as an adult, I recognize that my love of learning, of nature, of creativity were all seeds planted by this flawed but loving man.

—Sondra K. Lloyd, Vancouver

Gentleman

He was not a warm, fuzzy kind of dad. We called him Father and had no doubt that he meant what he said. When he gave us the look, we knew to settle down.

We weren’t buddies, but I visited him as often as possible when he had to move to assisted living. He had mellowed. We talked for hours during each visit. He entertained me with stories of his childhood in the San Fernando Valley when it was truck farms and orange groves, confessed how hard World War II had been, and owned mistakes he felt he made as a parent. I had been a bit resentful, but that all slipped away when he admitted he had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. It had lasted more than 50 years. It solved the puzzle of his emotional distance throughout my childhood.

The last time I visited, we were eating a dreadful dinner in the dining hall. I excused myself to use the restroom. When I came back, he said politely that his daughter was sitting there and she would be back shortly. Would I mind finding a seat somewhere else? I scooted over. I thought he was being silly. It took a while to catch on that he did not know it was me.

All through dinner, he carried on a lovely conversation with this stranger. He showed concern that his daughter had not returned, but could not have been nicer or friendlier. The walk back to the room cleared his mind. He looked sheepish and said, “Oops, you caught me.”

He knew who I was when I hugged him goodbye. I didn’t know it was the last time. I heard from my brother that he remained a true gentleman in the hospital, on his last day.

—Susan Correa, Camas

Honesty always

It has been said that Dad gave pints of alcohol away to celebrate my birth; he was happy to finally have a daughter after three boys.

I remember sitting on his lap in the evenings after his long day of work, watching wrestling. To this day I don’t care for the sport but still feel warm, loving memories when my husband watches it now.

Dad owned a sawmill for years in Hockinson. When I was 5 and 6, he would allow me to walk to the elderly neighbor’s house to help collect his eggs for him. Andy would go to his jacket pocket and give me a dime or two. One day I stuck my hand in that pocket when Andy wasn’t looking and took a few more dimes and nickels. When I walked back to the mill, Dad asked me how much money I got. I showed him the money, and he immediately asked me if I stole some.

Because one thing Dad taught us was to always be honest, I told him what I had done. Dad put me in the back of his truck and drove to Andy’s house. He took the money from me and gave it back to Andy. He pointed his finger at me and said, “Never ever steal again,” and, believe me, I never did.

Mom played the piano with a band in the area for many years. When I was 9 to 10, Dad started taking me with them. He taught me all the old dances: schottische, polka, jitterbug. I loved dancing with him and I still love to dance.

My last job before retirement was being a home care nurse and I was blessed to have the area I grew up in. I cannot tell you how many people knew my father and would tell me what a great, kind, wonderful man he was.

—Cheryl Lehner, Battle Ground

Comfortable

My dad is a great listener. He always has the time to sit and listen to our problems, fears, joys and jokes. He offers his wisdom and experience but never pushes too hard. He is giving to the point of being too generous. His children and grandchildren mean the world to him. He’s smart and seems to know at least a little about a lot of things.

He’s the guy who taught me to dance by letting me stand on his feet as we waltzed around the room and the guy who watched cartoons with me on Sunday mornings while we ate cold hotdogs. That’s who my Dad is in a nutshell: a comfortable friend. I am a very lucky daughter!

—AnnaMarie Bailey Lawson, Lake Shore

Adventurous

We had such a fun childhood with our adventurous father. Every summer, he would take us camping! We thought we were the luckiest kids on the planet! Over the years, we went camping at many lakes and beaches, and all the national parks in the country. We remember driving at night in big cities all lit up. It was spectacular to see as a little kid. The windows would be rolled down on the hot summer nights, and the car filled with so much love and laughter.

—Patti Spuhler, Woodland

Love and demons

Dumb Okie, my mother called my father. Product of the Oklahoma depression, joined the Army Air Corps in April before Pearl Harbor. Trained as an aircraft mechanic in Glendale, Calif., where people hated the military before Pearl Harbor and couldn’t get enough of them after. So he said. Angry. His favorite subjects: mother fat, ungrateful; military stupid; me, lousy help. His face tortured, he would launch himself across the room, fists clenched, swinging full circles as he beat the s*** out of his personal demons. When? Always, home, outside, in the car. I was amazed he didn’t tear the steering wheel off.

He became a foreman at United Air Lines maintenance. ”In the war” was the only conversation. Smashed my nose in with a right cross at 7 years old, only time he ever touched me. Married 53 years, I thought they didn’t like each other much. Our last conversation, 86, withered, he said: “We didn’t treat you very well, did we?” I said, “No you didn’t.” He shot those demons right though his lungs, died 11 days later.

I am an aircraft mechanic just like him. I loved him always.

—Bill Kelley, Yacolt

Who?

Dad enjoyed calling me Fred, which is not my name.

“Hey, Fred.”

Why in the world? Because it was random and silly and made no sense at all.

One sunny day, he paraded through the kitchen wearing raincoat, boots and an old metal Army helmet. In the same kitchen, he stationed this squishy yellow Tweety Bird head atop a tea kettle for supremely dignified display. Tweety sat there for years, never to be moved, lord of our home.

Dad once lobbed a hot potato across the dinner table so I could catch it on my upturned fork. He liked to turn off the car motor when blocks away and coast toward home, seeing how far momentum could carry us — could we roll right into our driveway? Sometimes. Trying for it was always a hilarious adventure.

One day, he and my brother and I were walking down the street when a black cat started wandering across our path. “Look out!” Dad laughed, and the three of us went running forward in a fit of giggles, trying to race around that cat before it could curse us.

He taught me to love music, history, nature, big books. When I was little, he made up amazing episodic bedtime tales about a hapless bunch of secret agents, “The Albanian Spies,” and a strange lovable monster known as “The Bad Gewgaw.” These stories were supposed to relax me into sleep, but really they only revved up my suspense and excitement for more.

My dad died earlier this year, but he’ll always be inside of me. I am so grateful.

—Scott Hewitt, Columbian staff writer