I miss my dad.
My real dad.
My dad died when I was 12. Motorcycle accident. And my whole life collapsed.
He wasn't a rich dad. He was always in some sort of trouble. Nothing that would land him in jail, although there were a few close calls. But he made sure John, my brother, and I always were taken care of. If anyone bullied us, he was down at the school the next day raising hell. If he knew the parents of the kid, he would be at their door. A few of those meetings ended up in fights.
The biggest thing I loved about him. And what I miss. Is how no matter how much we screwed up, or how much damage we did (like when we decided to help him paint the house), after we were punished. He would make us sundaes, and talk to us over vanilla and chocolate. You almost looked forward to a time out, when you knew sometime later, you would have ice cream.
He looked after us more than my mother did. She was always on him to get a better job, to work harder. He was satisfied that he had food on the table and a roof over our heads. We got our clothes at the goodwill, and we never felt poor. Until after he died and mom got weird.
I wish he could have met Steopa. I think they would have gotten along.
Happy Father's Day.