23 Father’s Days. That sounds like some arbitrary number that a person throws out as a reminder of something positive. My dad died December 21st, 1990. I was ten, set to turn eleven nine days later. I don’t remember very many Father’s Days with him. My memories that include him in my childhood are scattered these days. The things I do remember are the funny moments, like the summer we ate nothing but chicken for a week in every way you can imagine. I remember the time he banged his thumb with the hammer fixing our front porch. Oh the words the spewed from his mouth. I remember him going on hunting trips and walking up our long drive way with his hunting dogs, Begals. Those, are the memories that I can muster these days. The rest, a blur. When you join this club, be it sudden like I did or over time like some people, it’s not a club you want to be in too young. Not having a dad influence your dating choices, to bully the guys that you do decide to date, and to one day see his grand children (nine of which, he did not get to meet), it’s a hole that nothing can fill. The pain lessens, but you still remember the way you felt on those days when you went fishing with him, your mom, and your sisters. Those moments when he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. You remember those days that he yelled at you for being a bone head and the discipline. It’s days like today, I miss my dad. So as I embark on this Sunday, I will go and visit his grave, I will go home and take care of my kids, clean up, read magazines, and then read books to the two youngest ones and not dwell on the fact that he’s not here, but think about the good times I do remember. Happy Father’s Day Dad! I miss you.