This thread has me pretty weepy but
I remember long nights where we solved the problems of the world
I remember presenting him with his granddaughter
I remember learning from him a sense of values that has never left me
I remember him supporting my choices when no-one else would
He died, with me as his nurse in 1995 of cancer
Also for his granddaughter, my daughter, who died in a fire the following year.
Khadaji Thank you, my thoughts are with you
I remember standing on his feet when he was teaching me how to dance.
I remember singing in harmony with him.
I remember watching Cosmos every night on PBS and talking about it for days.
I remember wrinkling my nose and running away when he would tell me to pull his finger (people still tell stories about his gas).
I was the only the only person I knew at college with tools, because my dad made sure I could take care of myself.
My dad died of a heat attack October 26th, 2002. He missed my wedding, and I’m trying to remember everything that I will have to tell my children about him.
I’m also wondering what’s going on tonight. On the way to work, I heard one of our favorite songs we used to sing (and played at his funeral), I see this post and Shodan’s post http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?threadid=227409
, and I’m missing him more tonight than I have in a while.
Khadaji, this is a wonderful tribute to your father that stirs such warm feelings about our own. Thank you and my condolences.
I remember hanging on to his strong arms as he took me swimming in the ocean.
I remember being terribly embarrassed as he told strangers to watch out for sunburn on their toddlers (I had been badly burned as an infant, but didn’t remember that). I’m now so proud that he didn’t give a damn if they thought he was a buttinski - he was more concerned about the welfare of the children.
I remember when he let go of the bicycle I was learning how to ride.
I remember him turning to me and asking “Do you want to learn how to fly, little girl?” (he was a pilot in WW2).
I remember him finding new roads to travel to the same destination.
I remember the colorful swear words he could use with ease.
I remember him crying when his own father died.
My father died of colon cancer in June, 1975. I love you, Dad.
I remember that great 6 hour ride we had, just me and him, when he took me back to school after Christmas for my second semester back in January 1982.
I remember the Fla. Highway Patrolman that came to see me in the dorm the next morning. He needed me to come make the ID, Dad was headed south in a north-bound lane (BAC 0.17).
I remember the smell of sawdust as my father cut 2 by 4’s into all kinds of things. It’s still one of my favorite smells in the world.
I remember dancing with him at my wedding, and him leaning over and whispering in my ear “these damn rental shoes are killing my feet”
I remember when my oldest daughter was a toddler and her favorite toys were his unbreakable coffee cups; he would never let me take one away from her. At one point she had 4 of them in her toybox.
I remember when I was 14 and wanted to see an R-rated movie called “The Reincarnation of Peter Proud”; my mom wouldn’t let me see it, so my dad bought me the book.
I remember him giving me my first Stephen King book when I was 15 ('Salem’s Lot), and telling me not to read it at night.
I remember how unbelievably good he was at making up limericks.
He lost his battle with cancer and emphysemia on April 12th 2003.
{{Khadaji and family}}
And thank you for this wonderful thread.
My warm thoughts and condolences to you and your family, Khadaji. Such a wonderful remembrance to your father.
I remember the gold and glittery magic wand brought home to me and how he could make magic happen and I could too! if I’d just practice.
I remember being taken to see Goldfinger and being the only five year old there, thus beginning a lifetime of being in love with James Bond, and also wanting to be a Bond girl.
I remember barbeques and beer in the backyard, and me stepping barefooted on a lit cigarette he had tossed away. The look of “Oh no!” on his face when I burst into tears. I remember him scooping me up and taking me in to fix my boo-boo.
I remember him showing me how to wiggle my ears and the headaches I got from practicing constantly, to be able to do it as well as he could.
I remember him teaching me to whistle and the first song I learned being, “Around Her Neck She Wore A Yellow Ribbon”. I remember him telling me about how her head would fall off if she took the ribbon off. I remember loving that story and having nightmares anyway.
I remember him flying home early from work JUST so he could watch Batman with me. We would curl up in the giant naugahyde recliner, watch Batman and he’d give me bites of the lettuce heart he snacked on. Then we’d watch Combat, because he loved it, and I loved him, so I’d stay planted in his lap.
I remember the school size chalkboard he’d made for me, complete with alphabet and numbers, in the playroom on my 6th birthday. It was his last gift to me, having drowned nine days earlier in a flash flood.
I remember going to school that September, being the only person I knew without a father, and the taunts I endured because I had no father, and my daddy telling me in my head that it was ok, that he was there and to keep going, because I was smart and they were stupid.
My dad drowned in 1966, and not a day goes past that I don’t think of him and wish I could have known him just a little longer.
I remember:
I remember my dad—uneducated—reading Shakespeare to me at the dining room table, getting choked up and teary-eyed, and then blaming the smoke from his cigarettes.
(He’d quit smoking years before.)
I remember my dad talking about WWII, and brushing off the idea that sleeping in trenches for three years was heroic.
I remember bad puns, worse jokes, and Godawful plaid tam-o-shanters that he’d wear to cover up his bald spot. If you could put Christmas lights on those things, they’d have been Siegfried and Roy’s tree skirt.
I remember Dad reading reams and reams of poetry to me----because poetry gave a poor, uneducated guy like him a voice.
I remember him teaching me a right hook----‘because you might need it.’
I remember the way he’d get all red-faced and blinky whenever he got emotional, and how he used sarcasm and teasing as affection.
I remember the way he always wore suits and fedoras for work.
I remember how he could swear for minutes at a time without repeating himself.
I remember his sarcastic stories about his dysfunctional family----Part Irish, part Rom, and all of them nuts.
I remember him humming ‘Tom Dooley’, ‘The Bard of Armagh’ and ‘Danny Boy’ to me.
I remember him always taking off his hat and putting it over his heart when the flag passed by.
Charles Rex E., my dad, died January 27th, 1999. He was not well-treated by the Veteran’s Administration, which tried to take the house from my mom.
Thanks for taking the time to share that with us, man.
{{{Khadaji}}}
Khadaji, my sympathies on the loss of your Dad, and my admiration on your tribute to his life.
My Dad is 78. He has a myriad of medical problems that are quickly worsening. I know that I’ve probably just spent our last Thanksgiving together. I know that I will be grateful if I’m able to have one more Christmas with him. I know that I’m powerless to stop what is happening. But it will not stop me from taking him to any doctor that I think will help; that will make him more comfortable; that will give him a little more quality, a little more time. I see the whiteness in his fingertips, I see the purple in his nailbeds; I see the skin and bones where there once was muscle. I hear the cough in his chest, the tired voice that never sounded old before, the resign with which he asks me to write his obituary now so I don’t have to scramble at midnight to remember the details as he did for his father. I know his fear when he tells me about the man next to him at dialysis who has had both feet amputated, as he looks down at his own feet, betraying him with ulcerated sores that won’ t heal.
But I remember…
My Dad, the engineer, who can fix anything, who knows everything,
who has always remained the smartest man on the face of the planet.
Reading wiring diagrams and learning how to hook up a three way switch
Riding in the car on a snowy day, listening to Christmas carols on the radio and making up rhymes to the rhythm of the windshield wipers, just me and my Dad, taking a ride to the hardware store.
Beating him at cribbage after he taught me to play…and him loving it as we sipped our Bailey’s
Hearing him chuckle at his own well-worn jokes as though it were the first time he’d told them…and chuckling right along with him, as though it were the first time I’d heard them
Crashing his car, that he never lent to anyone, knowing I’d let him down, being scared to death he was going to kill me but still running into his arms as soon as he came, feeling him hug me tight and hearing him say he was just glad I was ok.
The tears in the eyes of the man who didn’t cry when I had to tell him that my Mom, his wife and best friend, would not live to see their 50th anniversary celebration, only a few months away
Being the brightest star in his eyes and always hoping to live up to that somehow
Thank you, Khadaji, for the opportunity to remember now while I still have time to say I love you, Dad.
What a wonderful, wonderful tribute! In reading your memories, I have thought of so many many memories that I wished I had added to the OP.
I just returned from the funeral. I didn’t cry until I saw Dad in the casket… he actually looked more like him than he has in a few years. They did such a wonderful job and he has been in such poor health.
I must thank each and every one of you, you have made me feel so good. If there is more to share, please continue to do so, it makes me feel both good and a little sad.
Dad, I said it I know, but maybe not enough: I love you.
{{Khadaji}} May your good memories continue to be a balm for your spirit. Thank you for helping me to remember:
Walking to church, and being carried on the way home because I was ready for an afternoon nap;
Sitting out on the back porch on hot summer nights, talking about the world and my future and just everything, and stealing swigs from Daddy’s Coke;
Going to the Father-Daughter dinner and being so proud of him, handsome in his Army uniform.
Daddy driving me to school when there was a bully problem in our neighborhood and stopping to pick up my friends along the way;
Daddy driving me to school in the tractor of his 18-wheeler, making all of my friends (and enemies) jealous and making me the cool kid for at least a week;
Hearing stories about his tour in Korea, about the friends he lost and the friends he gained, and the men who saved his life;
Driving to New Orleans, stopping along the way at hole in the wall pharmacy/soda fountain for dishes of banana ice cream because they were out of cones;
The way he put ketchup on everything imaginable, except Mama’s meatloaf because she made “the best meatloaf in the lower 48” and how I was so happy when I finally learned, in 5th grade, what the “lower 48” meant;
The way I always felt safe from every imaginable thing in the world when he hugged me.
My Daddy’s heart finally gave out in July of 1972, when I was 12 years old. He’s been gone more than twice as long as he was alive in my life, but I still love him and miss him every single day.
I don’t remember anything from when my dad was married to my mom (divorced when I was 4).
I do remember several birthdays with no response from him.
I remember not seeing him for 3 years at a time on his several overseas tours.
I remember each of the 3 other women he married and the various step-sisters that came with them.
I remember him telling me how sorry he was to have left me and wished he hadn’t been such an ass in his first marriage (with my mom).
I remember the chopper he built from scratch and gave me rides on.
I remember him leaving me with his friends so he could go out to the bar.
I remember a German shepherd he had named Buckshot.
I remember the first horror movie he took me to see in the theater when I was 10 (Friday the 13th).
I remember that he loved women too much and probably should have never married.
Died at the ripe old age of 57 of a heart attack on Feb 29th, 2001, just after a plane flight and only an hour away from seeing my half-brother for the first time in many months. I still have mixed feelings about him but I really wish he’d just been a bigger part of my life.
My condolences to you and your family, Khadaji. Time will take the edge off the pain but his memories will be with you forever.
I remember:
~faking being asleep after a trip in the car, so he would carry me into the house
~never holding his whole hand, only his index finger (which couldn’t bend all the way because of a sheet metal accident)
~whenever I was watching TV, him asking “Are there any cowboy movies on?”
~little cordial glasses of blackberry brandy to help “warm up” after I shoveled the snow
~the wonderful meals he cooked from scratch
~yelling for me in German to wake up for breakfast
~the newspaper and candy bar he always brought home for me after work
~him cleaning his guns while he asked my date what time I would be getting home
~stories about Chicago history, his experiences during the depression, WWII, and on the police dept.
~hanging out in Kaikai’s coffee shop in Chinatown, eating red bean sesame buns and BBQ pork bao, washing it all down with sweet, creamy coffee
~asking him how many bodies he had that day (he was a wagon man in the police dept.)
~sitting with a lump in my throat whenever the news announced that a “policeman has been shot. His name has not been released because his family has not been notified.”
~watching his health deteriorate due to diabetes
~asking the funeral director for scissors, then cutting a lock of my hair to tuck into his suit pocket
Jesus, Dad, I really miss you. Rest in peace.
Hey Dad, since you’re already up there, put a good word in for me. I could use it! 
Khadaji, my deepest sympathy for your loss. At risk of sounding cheesy, your Dad will never be far away because you are part of him. You will see him in the lines of your smile, in his sayings that will come out of your mouth and in all of the infinite ways that he helped make you, distinctly you. The wonderful memories that you have of your father will always keep him in your heart. Thank you for sharing them with us.
I remember -
All of the time you spent with me in cub scouts. Geez, you spent a lot of time with cub scouts, didn’t you?
The dinosaur that we made out of plaster of paris (it was as big as me!)
The little ghosts you made out of tissue paper and tootsie pops for the entire school.
The stuffed animals that you knitted by hand for the kids in the hospitals. I still have some.
You cheering the loudest when my car won the pinewood derby.
The way that you were able to toast the King of All Marshmallows.
All 4 foot 11 inches of you facing down the entire school board to get me into a better school.
Sleeping by leaning against your shoulder on those long car trips. It was the only way that I could sleep in a car, mom. Thanks.
I wish you could lived to see me graduate from high school. You were always there for me to motivate me with my schoolwork. I would not have made it without you.
I wish you could have lived to see my wedding - even though I know you would have fussed and fretted over every little thing, just to make sure that everything went exactly right.
I wish you could have lived to see your grandkids. You would have been their favorite person, believe me. I know how much you loved children, and how much you would have spoiled them.
It has been over 21 years, mom, and it still hurts that I did not get a chance to say goodbye to you before you were gone. It happened so fast - one day you were there, the next I was at your funeral.
Goodbye, momma.
Khadaji you seem to be handling the death of your father very well. I commend you and those qualities your father instilled in you.
My father is still with us, and I hope he knows how much his only daughter loves him. I do tell him.
I remember us sawing and measuring bits of wood in the garage and builing a dark room out of his office.
I remember him teaching me how to develop black and white film from the materials he inherited from his dad.
I remember how he’s the only man I know I can trust to love me always.
I remember him buying me a model railway set and driving me mad by being more into the technicalities than I was.
I remember him absent-mindedly wiggling my toes while we watched TV. This little piggy went to… wiggle wiggle. This little piggy went to… uh… wiggle wiggle.
I remember all the Sunday you sat watching my gymnastic competitions. I realise now it must have been very boring. Thanks for coming every Sunday anyway.
Love you daddy.
I remember Dad…
-being there for nearly every football game. He taught me to play from the heart.
-insisting that I learn to play ‘big-band style’ when I got my first drum kit.
-being SO disappointed in me when he found out that I skipped school in the sixth grade.
-becoming an advocate for the Cancer Society after having lost his voicebox to throat cancer due to years of smoking.
-showing me his hometown with humor and pride.
-telling me stories of my Grandfather (he died when I was very young).
-never letting me beat him at anything (cribbage, arm-wrestling, etc). If I was to win out over him, I HAD to earn it.
-never being phony with anyone.
Dad died after his third bout with cancer on December 28, 1978.
My dad is still with us. He’s 79.
I remember…
fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. Sometimes surf-fishing, sometimes off the jetties.
watching him barbecue steaks every Saturday night.
the way he looked when he came home from golfing, all windblown and red-eyed!
him teaching me how to make his famous barbecue sauce.
having to tell him my Mom had had a stroke, and closing up his dental office for him so he could rush to her side. She died a week later. She was only 57.
Khadaji, that is a very moving tribute to your dad. Thank you very much for letting us get to know him through your words.
You and I (and those who have contributed to your thread) are most fortunate indeed to have had these men in our lives.
Love to all of you.
Quasimodem
Khadaji, please accept my condolences. It sounds like you had a wonderful dad.
I didn’t. I can’t share a single memory like the ones that all the posters here have written about. None of those precious things ever happened between us. He was an angry man who ruled by fear, intimidation and violence, and then he started drinking. He died of the operation to remove a brain tumor sometime last year. I hadn’t seen him in 25 years, and I don’t miss him a bit.
I did have a wonderful mom, though, who passed away 7 years ago, just in time to miss meeting the woman who is now my wife.
So I am envious of you folks who can tell such moving stories of your dads that it makes me cry, and I hope all your dads knew how much you loved them, because by your writings, you certainly did. How very lucky you are.