I was a loser who didn’t seek a real job until I was 25, and didn’t get my shit together and move out until I was 30, but despite all that my dad always loved me and never so much as pushed me. Gentle encouragement from time to time, but always just glad to have his boy around. I live in a different country with my wife now. I have a beautiful daughter and a decent, stable job. We flew my dad out a few years ago and I’ve never seen him so proud of what I’ve become. He loved my daughter so much. We took him out to the Canadian Rockies. That trip meant the world to him.

He had a heart attack and died two years ago.

As tragic as it all is, I watched the emotional shit he went through over the way his father raised him, and his father’s suicide when I was too young to remember, and he made it a point to make sure I never had to wonder if he loved me or was proud of me. He was.

I hope his soul is flying through the universe somewhere and has seen how much my daughter has grown, and has seen my awesome new house. I sprinkle his ashes around my flower gardens every spring just to keep him around. I hope he’s around.

Love you, dad.

So my Dad’s an impressive guy, at least to me. Dropped out of high school after getting into an argument with a nun about divine authority, had a kid (me!) out of wedlock, married my mom and joined the military to provide, had a moment of self-reflection when child me did some math with fruit, did night school to get his high school diploma, after several deployments and changes in trade got a four year degree done in two years, became an officer, rose through the ranks and is now retired from the military, doing civvy stuff that protects the rights of servicepeople under the law. Beyond all of this, he is always trying new stuff: baking cookies, making his own clothes, repair on all sorts of shit, wilderness stuff, writing, painting, drawing, programming, photography, Qigong, studying philosophy - the list goes on, to this day (he’s currently on a motorcycle repair kick). I basically watched this guy transform from a disappointed, angry young man to a character you could find in a Heinlein novel and say “Jesus, there’s the competent man trope, right on time”.

With all of this in mind, what sticks in my head is what he said when I did some bogus (probably) IQ test as a kid and ran up to him with a good result: “IQ is just a measure of potential. It’s what you do with that potential that’s the important part”. Whether I’ve lived up to that idea is a separate question, but it still comes to mind these days.

This is also coupled with memories of near blows/fist fights over stupid shit growing up, but that’s also offset by watching him make a real effort to learn and account for/manage his temper. He’s a remarkably chill person at this point.

Love this guy, he is a rock fucking solid dude.

I have so many stark lasting memories of my dad, good and bad it’s hard to pick the one with the greatest impact.

Maybe the time I watched him have an allergic reaction to an ssri that ended in 6 cops beating him unconscious and dragging him to jail.

Maybe the time he unprompted pulled $800 out of his wallet and handed it to the lady at the laundry mat who was stressed about paying her rent that month.

Maybe the time my friends and I showed up at 2am with bath salts and he did a little toot with us.

Maybe the time he sat with me in the kitchen until the wee hours of the night playing chess while I cried about being broken up with for the first time.

My son is my step-son and his biological dad has hispanic and black ancestry. My dad once told me that “It’s too bad he’s black” meaning that it’s too bad he’s black as his life will be more difficult for him and he won’t have as high of achievements due to this fact. Great, so you have just accepted that we have an unfair and imbalanced society yet continue to tell me that this country is too woke and everyone has an equal advantage and there is no such thing as racial injustice. No old man, you are a fucking racist piece of shit.

We haven’t spoken for 3 years.

Realizing that my father was a coward killing goat herders from a billion dollar jet, not a hero like I thought growing up.

Who?

When I found out he had neglected to tell me that I have an inheritable disease that will suddenly just outright kill me one day, unless I get regular checkups. Other than that there just isn’t that much I know about him, he never told me about himself and we rarely meet.

My dad is… complicated, and I could tell a lot of insane stories. But the memory that is haunting me is how he said “we won’t wait when war starts”, in Russian. It made no sense. I overheard it as a part of some conversation with my mother (maybe other grown ups as well) when I was a kid and I asked what he meant and he claimed he didn’t remember saying that. I believe him that he didn’t remember. But it was odd, it’s not something he would say. Neither he, nor my mom, nor their friends are political people talking about war, ever. It was said casually, but no one ever casually talked about war or politics over here. This was 25 years ago. I kept thinking about it for years and years again, trying to grasp what it meant, what it might have meant, and why it stuck with me so much, why I couldn’t get it out of my head, why I couldn’t let it go.

It was also painfully screaming in my head when Russia attacked Ukraine in 2022. It’s like it was an eerie foreshadowing but I still don’t know. I have so few memories of my childhood, why did this one stay? Why do I see and hear him say this? What did he mean with “we won’t wait”? Did he mean we won’t wait for the war to start or we won’t wait when the war will have started? Both are possible interpretations in the Russian wording. What are we waiting for? Are we still waiting? What should we be doing?

I keep going back to this one stupid sentence and this memory is ringing in my ears. What does it want to tell me to do? I know I need to do something, I just can’t figure out what.

My father died when I was a baby

I’ll never forget being around 12 years old and hearing my dad address another adult by Mr+surname. It was Mr Palmer who organized the little league I grew up playing in and my dad coached. In school we were forced to address teachers and staff as Ms, Mrs or Mr but at that instance I realized treating others with respect is a choice

His fists.

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He taught me that relationships only work when everyone is getting out of the relationship what they need. Not just romantic, either. It’s been an important lesson that’s stuck with me my whole life, it still reminds me to be attentive to other people’s needs and not just hide in my own head.

My dad was a dairy farmer. While I ended up in IT, a field he knew nothing about, he supported me the entire way. He did not understand my field of interest beyond the fact it was something I was interested in.

On the flip side, everything I know about machinery maintenance and repair I have from him. In my current field (an odd mix of It, industrial robotics and heavy machinery… On ships), this background works well, as it gives me the diverse background needed for such a diverse work place.

I don’t think there are anyone else in the company who can do VLAN and LACP trunks AND troubleshoot misbehaving hydraulics.

Any good memories of my Dad are overwritten by the child abuse. I would’ve been better off being raised by a single mother. Today is… complicated.