Father's Day

Today is the first Father's Day I've had without a father. Thank goodness my own kids are around to help me out. Melissa and her family are out of town, but she called, Matt and Molly came by and took me out to dinner. Very nice, and much appreciated.
I thought about my dad, and how I could come up with a thousand regrets- for thanks not given, pleasantries not acknowledged, I'm sure I was an ungrateful wretch on many occasions. We can't dwell on regrets, just vow to do better in the future, try to be a better person. One has to be aware of other's feelings, but we have to keep a balance between our own well being and concern for others.
Dad was not one to toot his own horn, not given to bragging. I remember being surprised when he told me he was good at his job (electrician), that he felt a need to tell me this. I was about 10 years old at the time. It was an awakening years later, when I had a property management business, that an important part of the job is to communicate to the customer when you do something right. You can't assume that the customer will recognize your efforts- the nature of some businesses is that nobody notices what you do until you do something wrong. If you want to survive, you need to make the customer aware of what you have done right.
Dad might mention that he was tired of "bustin' his ass" to provide things that we mistreated or broke or took for granted, but I don't remember anything being said about "see all that I do for you?"
Dad was not one to show fear- I've probably written this already, but it was one of his strongest traits. Not afraid to look foolish, not afraid to show a little affection, not afraid to say "I don't know". If he had fears, they were well hidden, you'd have to ask Mom about that. I suppose a man shares things with his wife that can go no further, especially little secrets of weaknesses. I have always envied that fearlessness, that ability to not overanalyze what ifs, just try it and see what happens.

Dad's Hands

Mom gave me some of Dad's leather gloves, funny how they smelled like him. They were surprisingly small, I'd always thought he had big hands. Thinking so, probably from the time when I was so small, I'd hang on to his forefinger because that's all my hand could reach around. I remember thinking I was really growing up when my hand could reach around 2 of his fingers. Handholding with Dad probably ended with 2 fingers, when I was that age we didn't need to be so connected. Besides, there were a lot of other little hands that needed Dad's hands at that time.
When he was dying in the hospital, there was a lot of handholding, like we needed that connection. He couldn't communicate much verbally, but the looks and hand squeeze were somehow comforting, I like to think he got some comfort from this as well.
The last time I held his hand, it was a few minutes after he had died. The surprise was how quickly it had turned cold, I didn't want to hold those cold hands anymore, I'll just keep the memory of those warm living hands.
He sometimes looked at his hands, as in wonder of how they worked. When the hands shook, it was a curiosity to him, as what was the cause and effect of other things that were happening to his body.
My father's hands were always there- to lead, to give a boost up, to play a game, to fix things and then to teach how to fix things myself.