Dear Dad,

Happy 100th birthday—and happy Father’s Day! Even though you’ve been gone 45 years, I still think of you often. I like to imagine you’re watching over me and my family with a smile and an approving, “Dirty Dog,” your favorite expression.

If you are watching, you’d be chuckling over your granddaughter, scheming to convince a hive of honeybees to leave their hollow tree and move over to her backyard. You’d want to offer advice about her attempts to smoke them out. You could even caution her against potential danger like the time we were trout fishing in a remote area and you stepped on a ground bee nest, getting stung repeatedly and ending our fishing trip.

Speaking of fishing, do you remember white bass fishing in Fremont, where, with your double rigging, we got to pull up two at once! Are you looking down at your son, who inherited your love of fishing? Are you watching him navigate Lake Erie and haul in walleyes? Do you see he also loves ice fishing and uses the same tip-ups you used?

You’d be pleased to see that many of your interests live on. You have two granddaughters who experiment with grafting trees like you did. They also delight in raising chickens and proudly gather eggs and fresh garden produce to feed their families. 

As for me, I inherited your love of bonding with animals. From dogs to ducks and everything in between—bring them on. I also enjoy sitting by the water garden, which reminds me of the pond we had growing up. I stock it with orange goldfish. Remember the fish we used to catch at Racine’s Johnson Park, and bring it back to our pond. Watching them swim around stirs pleasant memories.

Are your eyes twinkling as you watch your great-grandson excel in baseball? Some of our best family times were when you joined us in a baseball game in our backyard. Or when, after a hard day of gardening, we drove to the A&W root beer stand for a frosted mug.

Your youngest daughter’s daughter just got married. As the family visited, we shared stories about you. Your son recalled the terrifying time he and a neighborhood boy were right next to a brush pile with a soup can of gasoline. They were about to throw it on the dry wood. You saw what they were about to do. In your typical non-lecture way, you told the boys to step back. You threw the gas on the fire, and there was a huge fireball. No words were necessary. The boys had learned their lesson.

He also recently shared a piece of advice he remembers to this day: “It’s the first shot that counts.” You shared that advice with him while hunting, but hearing the words now, at a time in my life when opportunities present themselves, I’m considering their validity. It’s as if you’re speaking to me. “Go for it. You only get one shot.”

So much of you lives on in all of us—in our interests, our values, and even our expressions. Dirty dog.

If only I could turn back time—we’d go pheasant hunting like we used to. Then swing by the bar for a cold beer and those golden onion rings we both loved. We’d share one more moment, just the two of us.
Then again... maybe we just did.