Father’s Day is a day of appreciate for everything fathers do.  And it’s a lot.  But for so many, like myself, who have lost their father…it’s also a day of reflection. 

Me and my dad, 1981.

As I reflect on my father, I can find all kinds of memories to write about.  Memories of love.  Memories of encouragement.  Memories of discipline…oh yes, lots of discipline.  Memories of impatience.  Memories of laughter.  Memories of Chilton manuals, and socket wrenches, and oily driveway grit in my hair…

Me and my dad, 1994.

But if I blurred all my memories together into one great Viking blue-eyed, cigarette smoking, politic talking, blood and gut movie watching, sword collecting, dragonslayer, the word that pulls it all together is FEARLESS.  Not just that he was fearless, but that he raised me to be that way too.  He raised me to be tough, competent, and independent.  He raised me to fight back.  To never, never, never give up.  To believe that I could handle it.  I could take it.  I could do it.  We don’t get hurt, we get angry.   Be tough.  Shake it off.

Me and my dad, 1999.

And that he had my back. 

Nothing was coming through him.  Nothing would happen that he couldn’t handle, no future he couldn’t conquor, no tool he couldn’t fabricate, and no length he wouldn’t go to protecting and providing for his family.  At the end of Armageddon, when the dust settled and nothing had survived but the cockroaches, he would be there, leading us through it.  Just the Hohners and the cockroaches. 

My dad.

Because long before I faced The World alone, I face The World knowing that behind me was my Dad–and The World was scared of my Dad.   

The Ladybug with my dad, May 5 2006.

Even though I never really was.  Much. 

My dad with the Ladybug (left) and my newphew, 2005.

That kind of raising gives a girl wings.