“He opened the jar of pickles when no one else could. He was the only one in the house who wasn’t afraid to go into the basement by himself. He cut himself shaving, but no one kissed it or got excited about it. It was understood when it rained, he got the car and brought it around to the door. When anyone was sick, he went out to get the prescription filled. He took lots of pictures … but he was never in them.” -Erma Bombeck
My father gave my sisters and me our music. One of my earliest memories is sitting under the grand piano in our living room while my father played. “Play louder!” I would shout.When I discovered popular music as a pre-teen, my father was a little upset. The only music in our home up until then had been classical. But when I was 14, he took me to Washington, D.C. to buy my first guitar. Then he betrayed me by hiding a microphone in the overhead light in my bedroom and taping me as I sang folk songs, thinking no one was home. I finally lost my shyness, and Daddy lost his distaste for popular music. He was proud, I think, to come hear me play with various bands during my 20s and 30s.He died in 1983 and never met my husband, a musician, and his granddaughter, who sat at the kitchen table when she was 4 and sang “I Want to Be Where the People Are” from the “Little Mermaid” in perfect pitch, with every note correct. As I listened in amazement from the other room, I was hoping Daddy could hear, too. He would be proud.– Erica Whitcombe, writerMy father was born in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada in 1913 of an Irish father and an English mother. My father told stories about standing on a street corner and waving a flag for soldiers returning from World War I. He recited this rhyme: “Kaiser Bill went up the hill to take a look at France. Kaiser Bill came down the hill with bullets in his pants!” ( tame stuff compared to his favorite limerick, which is too embarrassing to share.Shortly after the end of WWI, my father’s dad said “Pack up! We’re moving to England!” And so they did. A few years later, my father’s dad said “Pack up! We’re moving to Oregon!” And so they did.During the Great Depression, my father dropped out of high school and got a job at a flourmill to support his mother and siblings. They kept a goat and chickens. His mother did laundry; his father, an unemployed bank teller, lived elsewhere and was rarely discussed.World War II came. My father enlisted in the Navy and was a SeaBee, building bases in the Pacific and Newfoundland. After the war, he came home and got his high school diploma.I had forgotten (or maybe I never put it together) that my father was a high school drop out until I went through his papers after he died in 2003. In his lifetime, my father, whose childhood was pretty rough, built his own house and owned several more, owned several businesses, was a real estate broker and a stock market investor. Not bad for a poor Canuck.– Kathleen Wallace, writer and Web designerFew birthdays stand out in my mind, but there is one I will never forget. Growing up in a large family, my siblings and I were used to sharing things. Four of us shared one bedroom, hand-me-down clothes were the norm and toys were passed along to younger siblings when you out-grew them.It was customary in my family to get your birthday present the first thing in the morning. When I woke up on my 7th birthday, I jumped up out of bed and ran into the dining room looking for my present, but nothing was there. No present – I was ticked! How could they forget my birthday?After she got up, my mother said, “Your father will bring a gift home from work this afternoon.” Dad worked on my grandparent’s vegetable farm so I racked my brain all day trying to think what he could possibly be bringing home.That afternoon, my mother called us all outside, and we watched as my father drove a tractor with something that looked like a shed on a flat-bed trailer slowly down the lane. Two men walked along both sides of the trailer. I wondered, “Why are they bringing that building here.” I was shocked when they unloaded a full-size playhouse.”Is that for me?” I asked my mother.”It’s not just for you, it’s for everyone,” she said.”No Mary, it’s for Kathleen, I made it for her birthday,” my father said.There was my very own house, complete with two windows, a door, a small table and a play kitchen.Dad gave me the best gift in the world – a place to call my own – but more importantly – something special he made just for me.– Kathy Hare, writer
“Many a man wishes he were strong enough to tear a telephone book in half, especially if he has a teenage daughter.” -Guy Lombardo
From the time I was 11 years old, every winter my dad would take my sister and me skiing. We would get up early and he would make his tasty secret hot chocolate recipe.On the way to the resort I would listen intently to my dad tell stories of his youth – some humorous, some sad, some about our family history. We would also have in-depth discussions about issues, such as life on other planets, the U.S. space program, religion, world history and politics.My dad would never tell me what I should think about an issue, he would let me decide for myself what I thought about the topics we discussed. He always encouraged me to really ponder an issue and make a case for my beliefs, whether he agreed with me or not.After arriving at the ski resort we would load our pockets with miniature candy bars to snack on throughout the day. Of course, the day of skiing was always fun with the challenge of keeping up with dad.At the end of the day, my sister and I would each get to choose a pin from the resort gift shop as a memento of our day.Not only was the day with my dad a lesson of snowplows and parallel skiing, but it was also a life lesson, and I will always cherish the memories of both.– Stefani Wiest, writerWhen I was asked to write a tribute to my dad, my first thought was, “I don’t know, I’m not much of a writer.” But as I thought of it, I decided it was a chance to honor the main man in my life who had the most influence on who I am. Recounting his life and its effects on me bring a swell of feelings of gratitude. Clifford Olson, the son of a Swede and a Norwegian who individually came to this “New World” as teenagers, was a kind, gentle, humble and godly man. He was a man who felt deeply and was a precious individual. He was careful with his words. He was not dominating, but respectful of others and showed it. He taught me to keep short accounts in relationships with others by making things right and forgiving. In this I see him as strong, humble and wise. He often had a song in his heart, and I’d hear him singing out in the garage or wherever he happened to be. My childhood and growing years were pleasant because of him, and I have realized, as I have gotten older, that I was cared for well in the things that really matter. My faith is my heritage and blessing from him and for that I will always be grateful. THANK YOU DAD!– Kris Stonestreet, sales repI suppose that every young girl thinks that her dad is the smartest, strongest and the most wonderful man in the whole world. As a child, I was the same way. As a woman, my feelings remain the same.Dads are supposed to guide you when you lose your way. Mine does.Dads are supposed to support you in everything you do. Mine does.Dads are supposed to pick you up when you fall. Mine does.Dads are supposed to make you feel like you are the most important person in the world. Mine does.Dads are supposed to remind you that you aren’t always right. Mine does.Dads are supposed to understand everything, even when you tell him nothing. Mine does.Dads are supposed to cherish their grandchildren. Mine does.Dads are supposed to provide unconditional love. Mine does.Daughters are supposed to provide the same love to their dads. I do.– Michelle Barrette, co-publisher, sales managerThe best memory of my dad was watching him hold his grandson for the first time. But I think that was a bittersweet moment for my dad because it made him reflect back on the time he spent with me. My dad feels that he missed out on a lot of my growing up because of his job. But I don’t feel that way at all. I have so many wonderful memories of our time together. I remember how he taught me to ride my first bike. How he always helped me with my math homework. The countless times he took me fishing. The piles of sawdust we created in his wood shop making furniture for my Barbie dolls. The hours he spent pitching me softballs. All those times he cheered me on at basketball games. How he taught me to drive my first stick shift and how, more than once, he drove several hours to fix my car. Or how he loves to listen to me play the piano.Now that I’m a mother, I can only hope that I am as wonderful a parent as my father was and is to me. And I just want to say – thanks for all the great memories dad!– Angie Morlan, writerMy father, Zigmund Olkowski, was the son of Polish immigrants. Raised on a farm in upstate New York, he didn’t learn English until he started school. He was quite the linguist, fluent in Polish, English, Russian and French and could understand other Eastern European languages as well.Growing up I thought my dad could do anything. He was a carpenter, plumber, landscaper and auto mechanic – a real “jack of all trades.” If my father couldn’t fix it, then it was beyond repair. I was a teenager before I knew that there were people who specialized in the trades.My dad was also a gifted musician, who played the accordion on a daily basis. How I cringed when the familiar sound of polkas echoed through our house and how I missed it after he died in a car accident when he was 66 years old. My dad has been gone for 24 years this October and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. I miss his laughter, his love of the country, and most of all his hugs that let me know I was safe and everything would be alright. He was more than just my dad – he was my hero.– Alicia Littlejohn, writerIf I could have chosen a father, it would have been mine – Paul (Hank, Lefty) Doehrman. He and my mother adopted me when I was three months old. In my heart, I know my father thought of me as his blood relative. And in the midst of my childhood fears and sadness, my dad was my connection – my safety net.Perhaps I found comfort in his warmth, his simple ways, his strength and abilities. He loved children and animals. He was kind, considerate – a hard worker and a fair boss. He was athletic, a former semi-pro baseball player. He chased a million tennis balls teaching me the game. He attended all my softball games. He taught me how to hook a worm and clean fish. I never liked stabbing that worm, and I cringed when we’d find baby eggs in a mama fish. But I endured because I liked hanging out with my dad in the fish house.I also remember the time he took me to all the barber shops so I could collect real hair for the paper Mache bear I was making in art class. He appreciated my quirky side. There are many memories and many gifts. He gave me my work ethic, he taught me humility and compassion, and he embraced my true spirit. I am eternally grateful that he chose me.My dad died 19 years ago. What I wouldn’t give for one more day in the fish house!– Marylou Doehrman, co-publisher, editorOur dad is the best dad in the whole world! He has provided us with many things that make us who we are today, but we are most thankful for his sense of humor. His sense of humor has taught us not to sweat the small stuff.Our dad always keeps us laughing and makes even the most boring times fun.From countless hours teaching us to ride a bike to supporting us in whatever we do, he has always been there saying “you can do it!” We couldn’t ask for a better dad, and we love him so much. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.Love,– Megan, Jill and Laura (the Barrette girls)P.S. Always remember, dad, you are always an hour and a half or 90 minutes from somewhere.There are so many things I’d like to say about my dad, but when I stop and really think of my dad, I think of a fairly quiet man. Someone who speaks his mind, but it doesn’t take much to get his point across. My dad took me on many fishing and hunting trips. One hunting trip stands out in my mind. We were sitting in a warm sunny meadow, waiting, like most hunting trips, and he just began talking, really opening up to me unlike ever before. He told me hunting stories; he told me stories about his life as a young man, even before he met my mom. He really seemed to open up to me that day. I learned more about my father in those moments than I had ever known.To this day, I have a special bond with my dad. He doesn’t say much, but what he says means the world to me. I look forward to those unexpected phone calls when we are able to talk: no pressures, no worries. We just talk! I want to thank my dad for those calls and the special times we have spent together. Happy Fathers Day, I love you Daddy!– Becky Weis, writerTo My Daddy,You have taught me so much over the past 18 years, and you’ve pushed me to better myself at everything. You’ve taught me to ride a bike, use a computer, drive and be an honest and intelligent young lady!!! You have always been there to keep our family safe, and I’m honored to have you as my daddy!! I hope to go to college and continue to make you proud; I love you and Happy Father’s Day!Love Always,– Ashley
Then farewell, my dear; my loved daughter, adieu; the last pang of life is in parting from you. -Thomas Jefferson
