That's MY Dad

He's the first man I ever loved. Even before I was born, I was familiar with his voice. When I first entered the world, I was hysterical and crying so much that it seemed that nothing would calm me. But then I heard "woo, woo, woo, woo, woo" in a deep and soothing voice. A familiar voice. I immediately stopped crying and looked up at him. Here was the single constant I had to hold onto. He had been saying that to me while my mom carried me inside of her. To this day he makes that sound for me. I believe it will bind us together forever.

He's the guy that can't go to the grocery store without bumping into someone he knows, and well enough to strike up an enviably comfortable conversation. I've always admired his way with people. I've always wished that I could connect with others the way he does, so naturally and gracefully. As a child, I remember feeling proud that my dad was so well-liked. He was the coolest teacher in school - the P.E. teacher. Every student loved him and enjoyed his class. All their parents loved him too. He was an excellent communicator and gave everything he had to children, the next generation.

My dad was responsible for the largest, most-anticipated, annual event at my school - Field Day. I remember how much work was involved in the preparation every year from drawing chalk lines in the pavement and creating and placing signs to lead participants to the various booths and event areas (which also needed to be set up and properly stocked), to making sure that there were fresh batteries in the walkie-talkies we used to communicate shortages and other such concerns to one another. After weeks of preparation we'd arrive early in the morning, before the sun had risen, on the day of the event and spend hours making everything just right. We'd walk together through the event areas, which were established around the entire perimeter of the school, stocking coolers with water bottles and delivering food to the grilling and picnic areas. Each Field Day was as rewarding as it was exhausting to prepare.

The screaming laughter of children, running with super-soakers, slushies, and hula hoops in hand, filled the air as they cycled through the events. They tired themselves out in the bright sunlight, playing a variety of games with their beloved friends and celebrating the end of another challenging school year. I recall playing tug of war, hopscotch, and with a huge parachute that my entire class would gather around and lift into the air. I was amazed at how slowly it descended, dwarfing us as we ran underneath in a bustle of excitement. At the end of our games, we would retire to the field from whence emanated the smell of grilling hot dogs and hamburgers and awaited the promise of chilled refreshments. Dad would be there with a spatula in hand, flipping food and wearing a big, welcoming smile. Kids would clamber over to him like a horde of zombies, screaming his name and wrapping their tiny arms tightly about him. Years of experience had taught him to steady himself against the onset of the mass of tiny, grasping bodies. It was easy to see how much he loved and cared for these kids, 'his kids'.

I've always looked up to my dad. I've always wanted to make him as proud of me as I was of him. He made everything look easy, but as an adult I can clearly see how hard he had to work; to provide for our family and to give everything he had to everyone else. He worked multiple jobs, leaving the house as the sun was rising and coming home late at night smelling of sweat, oil, and wood. As tired as he was, he would sometimes wake me up and whisper for me to be quiet and I always knew what that meant - a Store Run.

He and I would sneak out quietly (often giggling) and drive discreetly away from the house as my other siblings slept. I later learned he would do this with all of us, but I've always suspected (probably due to my perception of events at the time) he did it with me the most. We'd drive together in total darkness, trees lining either side of the long straight road, for about fifteen minutes until arriving at the nearest gas station. When we got there he'd leave briefly and return with a sweet treat for two, usually chocolate. We'd stare up at the clear night sky full of stars and cuddle. He made me feel safe and loved and special. It was not long before I began to wonder who made him feel those things.

My dad was always working hard, and at some point I realized, a little too hard. He never seemed to rest. Every day he challenged himself to improve and created projects for himself to work on, including renovating the house and building a garage complete with an industry standard car lift. Yet he still found the time to pick me up from practices, mow his mother's lawn and plant her flowers, and spend quality time with me and my other siblings. All this he did and more, despite working tirelessly into the night every single day. I remember one day he picked me up from practice in his dump truck. He had clearly come straight from working to get me. He was dirty and smelled of oil and wood, a smell I'd come to regard rather fondly.

I wanted to be upset because he was late getting me, but I knew it could not be helped. We started talking about my day, and I gave short and typical responses. At some point, he became silent and I looked over at him, feeling a bit guilty for my attitude. I asked him if he was okay and he just sat stiffly still and remained quiet. That was when I noticed a subtle movement behind his head. I held my breath and covered my mouth, eyes wide and welling with tears. A huge grin broke out on my dad's face as a tiny gray kitten with big gray eyes poked out from beyond the collar of his jacket. He had found him under a wood pile while he had been working and brought him to me, for me. I was so happy, I cried. I had always wanted a pet. Leon, as I had later named that kitten, would be the first.

At one point my dad bred boxers, these short-haired, medium to large sized working dogs with big drooping cheeks and broad chests. I remember my excitement and the smell of cedar bedding where the breeding female would have litter after litter of writhing, squealing, plump-bellied pups. It was my first experience with birth and, sadly, also with death. Every other litter there would be one or two runts that she would reject and refuse to feed or nurture. My dad would let them die, explaining they were sick and understanding that their mother had identified them as too weak to survive on their own. I was too young to understand and I resisted that notion.

One litter, I decided to try and help a runt that had been abandoned. I fed it formula at regular intervals, and kept it swaddled in soft, warm blankets. I had alarms set to time each feeding. I'd warm the bottle, test it, feed the pup, warm the blankets, wrap the pup, and repeat the process every couple of hours. I don't remember how many times I did this. I only recall waking up past the time I should have, fatigue having caused me to sleep through my last alarm, the pup quiet and far too cold. I was completely inconsolable and ran straight to my dad, waking him in the middle of the night. He had known this would happen and explained there was nothing I could have done differently. I had done my best, and with my help the pup had lived longer than it was supposed to.

Still, it was a difficult lesson to learn. The next litter produced another runt. I felt conflicted as to what I should do, but I watched her closely. The mother didn't outright reject her, but she kept the tiny pup at a distance. I would scoop her up into my little hands and place her closer to her mother so she could eat. One day she grew big enough to run around. As I watched her grow, I became quite attached. She was among the last to be sold, likely due to her size, which meant I got to spend some extra time with her. We'd run through the yard chasing and tackling one another. The grass made me itchy but I didn't care. I was having the time of my life. But when it came time to say goodbye, I couldn't.

I held her, arms shaking, between me and the person she was meant to leave with. My father told me to say goodbye and let go of the dog, but I could not even look him in the eye as I struggled against tears to comply. I felt like I was being torn apart. I knew that it was unprofessional and not adult-like, but unlike the many pups we'd loved and given to good homes before, this runt was different. She was special and I couldn't bear to separated from her. In the end my dad apologized to the lady who had chosen the runt and gave her the other pup instead. I remember hearing him tell her "my daughter is really attached to this one, I'm afraid I can't sell her to you." At that moment I loved my dad more than I ever had.

I felt like he could see me in a way no one else could. I think it would have broken his heart as much as mine to give her, Willow, away. Probably because it would break mine. Willow and I were inseparable, just as he and I were. And when I went to college and couldn't be with her (or him) anymore, my dad took care of her. They took care of each other. He would take her in his truck to go with him to work and she loved nothing more. When she became frail and sick with age, he took care to gently lift her into the truck so she could still come along. He was both our dad.

My dad has retired from his role as a school teacher and, since then, he has established two businesses and become a youth pastor for our church. He is just a man. A man who grew up poor on a small farm as the youngest of eight other children. He struggled in school but worked hard and achieved success in every aspect of his life. His most notable success has been at being both a good man and a good father. He isn't perfect, but to me he is the best man alive. He's a treasure who treasures others. A servant whom everyone he meets wants to serve. A father who, as kids of yesteryear would say, hashtag understood the assignment. That's My Dad.