When I think of my dad, I think of road atlases, baseball in the backyard on Stephenson Street, walking to The Treat Shop, bicycles and motorcycles, that full-on Pistons sweatsuit with size thirteen white tennies. I think of sub sandwiches and Cheetos on our way to catch smallies at the mine ponds (and that one time I accidentally hooked HIM through the cheek when a wild overhead cast got away from me 😆)

When I think of my dad, I see him ducking through the kitchen door, July sweat beads crowning his brow as he announces “I know a place that’s twenty degrees cooler,” then loads us kids into the two-tone Suburban to drive to Lake Superior. He always gave a shiny victory quarter to the last sibling standing in the cold, clear water.

When I think of my dad, I think of orange lava soap and cracked mechanic fingernails. He’s never been one for cologne, but his signature fragrance of gasoline and WD-40 will follow him to the grave.

When I think of my dad, I see him chauffeuring us all around The Spread Eagle Chain of Lakes from the captain’s chair of the pontoon boat, helping coach his granddaughter’s softball team, picking up his grandsons for Scouts, smiling and clapping proudly at all of their plays, programs and ceremonies.

When I think of my dad, I think of how grateful I am for his generous spirit and bellowing laugh. I’m glad I inherited his love for storytelling, the dimple on his cheek, and his heart for underdogs. And I’m really glad I DIDN’T inherit his fashion sense or his affinity for early 90’s female pop artists (cue up Celine, Tina, and Gloria).

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for all the lessons and stories (even the ones you’ve told us a dozen times). Thanks for the road maps, car snacks, and gas money.

In the words of one of your faves: You’re simply the best.