Enjoy the day men....we darn sure deserve it! Let’s hear your your most cherished or funny story/memory about your Dad.
The preacher read some statistics today of the importance of having a father in the home. They were from the Fatherhood Initiative. The results of a fatherless home are quite telling. Dads, we are important, don't let anybody tell you different!
It was tradition at the end of Summer that me and dad would have a tennis ball war. With a bag of tennis balls tied to both sides of our cut-off jean shorts and an aluminum garbage can lid as a shield we’d go at it.
At first, he was getting the best of me but (with his super soft wimpy feet protected by boots and sneakers all year) he had no idea where I was leading him to as I retreated through the neighborhood and he followed like a crazed dog trying to get my surrender.
There was an overgrown empty lot where a house had burned down years ago. Someone usually mowed it somewhat regularly and at this time it was about ankle tall. By the time Dad made it to the lot I had already crossed it and was near the back taunting him. He came at me like a laser and then stopped suddenly near the middle. What he didn’t know until then is that the lot he was crossing was full of stickers and goat heads and his bare feet were covered in them. I know there are stickers in KS but I have never seen goat heads here. Anyway, goat heads are on a whole other level of pain compared to stickers.
Yes, I too had some stickers and goat heads in the bottom of my feet but most didn’t stick and those that did didn’t hurt much because my feet were tough and rough as stone.
So, there he was stuck and unable to move. I was also the starting pitcher on my mid-high baseball team and at the time could throw a screaming fast ball. I also still had most of my tennis balls since I was primarily on the run from the start of this war.
Let’s just say when it was all over there wasn’t a spot on his body that didn’t have a tennis ball welp on it. For a long time, I made him display that lid in the garage with date of my win so everyone that came over could see it and ask about it.
When we think about it...we crack up so much because he and that lid looked like they’d been through an Okla hailstorm together.
Love you Dad...you took that beating like a real man.
The summer mom died, I was 14, and dad and I fished at least three times a week. That was back when men didn’t cry or seek counseling. It helped so much.
After that, he maybe hunted once or twice a year and bass fished 6-8 times.
We’d hoped to do more together after he retired. It’s when I was globe trotting for WSJ and the possibilities were endless. The first time he climbed into a tree stand he leaned back and felt a horrible pain in his back. Bone cancer. He was amazingly fit otherwise. Never smoked, drank and did paid attention to his diet and exercise.
The cancer was not kind. He was, though , able to walk the 70 yards from his house to our lake and watch his grandkids fish. He was an outstanding grandfather, really. None better. Far more patient and dropped everything when they came.
His biggest regret in knowing he was going to die at 66 was that he wouldn’t get to spend more time with his grandkids.
It sounds nutty, but I really believe dad was along the spring after he died when I helped a friend, also dying of cancer, get his last turkey. Several things happened that day that just don’t happen.
It’s a long, long story that includes a plane that wouldn’t start in Georgia, cattle not being delivered and a special tom they seemed to have an aura about him. Seriously.
No, my friend didn’t shoot that tom but that bird sure made it possible for my friend to shoot one probably 20 minutes after normal fly-up time, with coyotes all around and my friend struggling ...
My friend basically went home, crawled in his recliner and died a few days later a very happy man.
That unique tom was never seen again.
Let’s all remember we’re the dads, grandpas or special friend or uncle others will be talking about in the future.
The summer mom died, I was 14, and dad and I fished at least three times a week. That was back when men didn’t cry or seek counseling. It helped so much.
After that, he maybe hunted once or twice a year and bass fished 6-8 times.
We’d hoped to do more together after he retired. It’s when I was globe trotting for WSJ and the possibilities were endless. The first time he climbed into a tree stand he leaned back and felt a horrible pain in his back. Bone cancer. He was amazingly fit otherwise. Never smoked, drank and did paid attention to his diet and exercise.
The cancer was not kind. He was, though , able to walk the 70 yards from his house to our lake and watch his grandkids fish. He was an outstanding grandfather, really. None better. Far more patient and dropped everything when they came.
His biggest regret in knowing he was going to die at 66 was that he wouldn’t get to spend more time with his grandkids.
It sounds nutty, but I really believe dad was along the spring after he died when I helped a friend, also dying of cancer, get his last turkey. Several things happened that day that just don’t happen.
It’s a long, long story that includes a plane that wouldn’t start in Georgia, cattle not being delivered and a special tom they seemed to have an aura about him. Seriously.
No, my friend didn’t shoot that tom but that bird sure made it possible for my friend to shoot one probably 20 minutes after normal fly-up time, with coyotes all around and my friend struggling ...
My friend basically went home, crawled in his recliner and died a few days later a very happy man.
That unique tom was never seen again.
Let’s all remember we’re the dads, grandpas or special friend or uncle others will be talking about in the future.
One story sticks out in my mind. I was about 14 at the time. We owned a soybean field that had quite a few Prairie Chickens feeding in it. My Dad myself, two brothers were going to be waiting on opening morning of season. A neighbor asked if a couple of his friends could join us. My Dad said of course. Two or three flocks of Chickens came to feed and we got a few. One of the guests hit one but it struggled off and fell in a pasture a couple hundreds to the East. When the hunt ended Dad told the shooter he marked where the Chicken fell. The shooter responded that it would be useless too look for the bird. Dad walked to the spot where the bird fell and found it. He came back to the field , and told the guest "here is your bird". The hunter was informed that he need not come back. I guess seeing Dad refusing to allow a bird to be lost unless great effort was made to recover it, shaped how I feel about making every effort within reason to recover any game wounded. Whether it be a pheasant, a deer or whatever.
Unfortunately I lost Dad to a heart attack when he was 57 and I had just turned 21. It is sad to think of all the outdoor adventures we missed due to his early passing. I am glad the he had time for us when we were growing up. Almost 47 years later I still think of him every day.
