I was doing a little spring cleaning last week and came across an old tackle box that belonged to my father, who passed away a few days after Christmas in 1987. His fishing items have moved about from Los Angeles to Utah to Florida (four places) to Nevada to New Hampshire and back to Utah, and still I can see no reason to put it in the yard sale we are planning.
I don’t have many things left of my father’s: a cozy navy blue jacket with his name embroidered on it; a few jewelry pieces; a belt buckle with his nickname “Cy” engraved on it, a splurge gift I bought for him at Tiffany & Company many years ago. Of course I have photos. It’s kind of hard to think of our dads as little boys, but pictures don’t lie.
Like a lot of kids, my relationship with my father was a mixture of love, respect, fear, disdain (when I became a teenager, I discovered he knew absolutely nothing about life). But when I gave birth to my first daughter we grew closer, bridging a gap that had existed between us, and I came to love and admire him in a way I hadn’t known was possible.
Years after he and my mother divorced, he married a wonderful woman named Chris. Together they shared the close of their respective lives, spending most of that time being grateful for what they had, laughing all the way.
Tomorrow as we remember our dads, I’ll be thinking of Daddy, and expressing my thanks for him and everything else I’ve received in this life from my Heavenly Father.
A happy Father’s Day to every one of you!