Good Men Make Great Fathers
Act how you wish to be remembered
Memories of my dad appear randomly in my brain like a documentary film run by a jumpy projectionist.
I’m convinced I am incapable of misremembering him, anymore than an echo could repeat words never spoken.
Others’ memories may contradict my own.
Still, mine are true.
I grew up in the landlocked midwest. We had lakes, ten thousand of them. Some had grassy banks and willow trees that swished and dipped to make rings in the surface of the waters. Others had wooden docks and sandy beaches perfect for lazing in the sun. My five siblings and I learned to swim in those waters. We took turns holding onto our father’s back while he swam out to the floating dock where no one’s feet could touch bottom. I still remember the thrill of flying out behind him like the cape of Superman flapping in the wind, terrified I’d lose my grip.
But the moment we reached the safety of the shore, I begged, “Again! Again!”
Also around that time, me fighting with a big brother. He was five years older. He always won. Our mother responded to our squabbles with a smack upside the side the head. But she wasn’t around this day. Our dad broke up our bickering by kneeling between us, a King Solomon, eye level to my five-year-old self.
