A Father's Day Tribute...
There are so many sweet, classic dad moments that pop into my head every now and then. I don’t know what triggers them, but I thought it was time to write some of them down while they’re still fresh in my memory.
For instance, I remember a time when my dad called me on the phone. He wasn’t used to answering machines, so when the machine picked up and the message was in my voice, he said, “This is Jeannie’s dad. Can you tell her to call me?”
I can just picture it—the slight confusion in his voice as he talked to the machine like it was a polite roommate or a secretary who might actually pass along the message. Answering machines were a whole era of technology that tripped up so many parents. I don’t think he ever really got the hang of it, but it’s the kind of small memory that makes me smile years later.
I also remember the time there was a really bad thunderstorm—the kind where the wind is howling and the power goes out. The whole city was under a tornado watch or warning (whichever is worse). Dad called me to check on whether my cat was okay. “She’s fine, dad. So am I,” I replied.
That’s peak dad energy right there—priorities straight to the cat in the middle of a tornado warning. Wind howling, power flickering or out, and him dialing me up specifically to make sure the furry one was handling it okay.
One of my favorite memories happened when I moved into my first apartment. I had furniture being delivered, but the store refused to do it on a Saturday. I couldn’t take the day off work, so I was stuck—until Dad stepped in.
He was working nights as a baker at the time, so he offered to come straight from his shift to my apartment and wait for the delivery. Not knowing how long he’d be there, I decided to bake him a batch of cookies the night before as a thank-you and a little something to keep him going.
When I got home from work that evening, the furniture was perfectly arranged exactly where I’d asked. On the counter sat a platter with my cookies—only one or two missing. I smiled and asked Dad what he thought of them.
“The biscuits were good,” he said.
I blinked. “What biscuits?”
He pointed to the platter.
In my defense, my “cookies” were nearly two inches thick and looked far more like biscuits than anything you’d find in a cookie jar. Dad, bless him, had eaten a couple anyway.
From that day forward, I happily retired from the baking side of the kitchen and left that particular skill to Mom and Dad.
I wish I would have saved some of these calls. It’s a tender kind of regret—the kind that sneaks up on you years later—those little quirks of his that made him so lovable. Even if the actual tape recording is gone, or in some cases, never existed, the moments I shared with him and the sound of his voice saying what I lovingly refer to as dad-isms is still crystal clear in my head. There are so many great memories that I could include in this tribute, and maybe one day I will. Some are funny, some poignant, and all of them pure—dad.
