VISIT MINNESOTA MONTHLY ON THE WEB

Online Article Index

My dad always resented Father's Day. He would head off to 8 a.m. Mass every third Sunday in June in hopes of hearing fathers earn just a bit of the praise heaped upon mothers from the pulpit just one month before. The priest would always go on about what a special role mothers have in our lives, but when it came to Father's Day it was "no comment." With no orchid corsage and with only the annual gifts of Old Spice from his daughters to look forward to, Dad would listen closely to each year's homily waiting for even a slight acknowledgment of the holiday. Each year he would come home irritated and empty-handed. This year will be different.

For the May issue of this magazine, we honored Mother's Day in In Short and on this very page. As we approached planning for the June issue, I was reminded of my father's annual disappointment and couldn't let another year pass without doing my part to even the score.

It's been 10 years since the first Father's Day without my dad. Yet every time I see a bottle of Old Spice, I can't help but think of him. When it finally occurred to me that perhaps he would enjoy something more than aftershave, I got somewhat more creative with my gifts for him as time went on. When I was 28, I found a simple gold chain for the pocket watch that he wore in his vest pocket when he dressed up. When I gave it to him, we were at the supper club in my hometown to celebrate his birthday. I remember the tears in the corners of his eyes as he carefully lifted the chain out of the box and attached it to his watch with his aging and not-so-nimble fingers. A few years later, we buried him with the watch and chain tucked into his volunteer fire department uniform.

Before he died, we had a quiet conversation in his hospital room. I asked him what he had always wanted to be. He didn't hesitate, but said with a faraway look in his eyes that he'd always wanted to be a long-haul trucker.

I asked why he didn't pursue his dream and he said that once he and my mom started having kids, he knew that his place was at home and not on the road.

He settled for driving a beer delivery truck in the early days, and then a post office jeep for his mail route. The closest he ever got to owning a semi was his F150 Ford pickup with running boards and cab lights.

He may not have been a trucker, but he had a full-time vocation as my teacher, my coach, my buddy, my hero, my nemesis, and just a man trying to raise his family of three girls in a small town with my mom, his former high school classmate. I'm sure it wasn't easy to be him, to always be outnumbered by females in our house. But he taught his three daughters how to shoot baskets, throw baseballs, and ride motorcycles. He taught us how to drive a tractor, bale hay, and walk beans on his parents' farm. And he taught us that being good in school was important. He wouldn't have called himself a feminist, but the evidence speaks for itself. He backed me when I tried out for the boys' baseball team when there was no softball team. He cheered my middle sister on in the first-ever girls' Minnesota state basketball tournament. He was so proud when my oldest sister got her doctorate.

He always joked that he saved his brains and talent for his daughters. Yet when a few hundred people came to his wake a decade ago, lining up out the door of the funeral home, it was clear that people appreciated his personal touch and his special talent for making people feel comfortable. There were the kids that he'd stopped to say hi to each day on his mail route, the ladies along the route who made special Christmas treats for him. And the guys who could always count on Amby Foley to volunteer to put the flags out on Memorial Day and to have the fridge full of cold beer at the fire department. Quite a lesson in community service.

This Father's Day, I salute the man who taught me to value wisdom, integrity, and love. This is my gift to him, although about 10 years too late, something he always wanted—the Last Word.