Father’s Day brings back memories, if you let it. My memories of my father are over 45 years old, but remain vivid. Today, I see my childhood through father’s eyes, having raised two incredible daughters.

Dad was born very late in his parent’s lives. His childhood was not easy. His mother died early in his life. He was raised by a sister 14 years older than him. His father ran a couple of businesses in Kingsport, Tennessee, and was locally famous. In 1966 his father died, of a blood clot formed in a lower leg. I remember Dad crying at the funeral, my first observation of his tears.

Dad played football at Dobyns-Bennett High School, then for the University of Tennessee. He was a lineman. Back then, you could be a lineman at 5’10” and 195 pounds. While there, he realized that his true calling was to be a metallurgical engineer. He was the first and only graduate with that degree that year.

Dad worked for America at Oak Ridge National Lab. For many years he helped design materials and coatings for nuclear reactors. He even worked on a reactor for satellite power. He was always wearing a dosimeter, being exposed to radiation at the lab.

Dad was a camper. He had a family camping rig all figured out. We had a big blue tent, bought from Sears, with Ted Williams image on a little white label in the lower right corner. He had a ground tarp made out of canvas material so thick I don’t think any rock could ever pierce it, custom cut for the tent dimensions.

He had a picnic table awning, light green with an orange stripe, to keep the eating area dry. He had Coleman lanterns for the evenings, and flashlights to use on the path to the bathroom building.

He had special foam mattress pads made to fit the two “bedrooms” of the three section tent, on which we placed our sleeping bags. He bought a Coleman icebox, like a little refrigerator, that kept food cool and gave us ice water through a little spout inside as the ice melted.

Dad was a craftsman. He could make anything that he found of value. He made badminton net support poles out of two coffee cans, two cake pans, galvanized steel poles, and concrete. Those poles lasted for a decade. He made a car top carrier out of plywood to contain camping gear. He made a camping kitchen box that held the stove, the nested pots, the silverware tray, and other miscellanies. Of course, everything had its place. And, the box was perfectly designed to fit on the opened tailgate of a 1966 Pontiac Bonneville station wagon.

Dad was a leather artist. He created holsters, scabbards, sheaths, and slings in his den. Lots of people can stitch a holster together. His were decorated with stamped borders, filled with stamped basket weaving patterns, and often hand-carved imagery of flowers or animals. I still have one of two holsters he made for my Lone Ranger cap pistols.

Dad was a hunter and shooter. I think he was more a shooter, as we rarely ate anything he hunted. His den was arrayed with trophies and medals from the U.S. Army Reserve, for whom he competed. He practiced in three places. After work, I sometimes found him “dry firing” an Anschutz 22 rimfire rifle laying down in the living room. He would wear a leather coat, sling, and glasses just like he had to in the matches.

In the basement garage, I could hear him shooting a 22 rimfire pistol into the earthen bank below the kitchen, some ten yards from the garage door. At Volunteer Rifle & Pistol Club, he shot infrequently, but at long ranges. I got to go with him. I still have my Youth Hunter workbook from when we went to that weekend instruction class.

Dad was a dog lover. We had two dogs growing up. Freckles and Troubles were their names. Troubles was a slow-moving beagle, with black and tan coloration over the white fur. He barked all the time. He got into fights with other dogs, at least once, and had a nasty wound in his belly from that excursion. Freckles was a reddish brown long-haired dog, probably a setter of some sort. I remember Freckles bit my left knee area one afternoon, and my skin was punctured. I see a tiny freckle there today, and always thought they renamed him Freckles because of what he did.

Dad was a hunting dog lover. He hunted doves, mostly, at Fulton Bottoms. To retrieve the fallen birds, he decided to get a hunting dog. He chose a Weimaraner. This sleek grey dog was named Reuben. Dad tried to train it to retrieve. The breed, after all, is supposedly able to do anything a hunter needs — point, flush, retrieve, and even water retrieve. I remember that Reuben was supposed to return the birds without crushing them or eating them. Dad tried teaching the “soft mouth” to Reuben by having him retrieve large pine cones, with those sharp points on the edges. Reuben ate the pine cones. He never worked out as a hunting partner, but Dad loved him regardless.

Dad was an archer. He used an English long bow. He gave me a youth fiberglas recurve bow. We would go into the big backyard, set up a round target filled with straw, and shoot. I marveled at the ability he had to draw the big wooden bow back, and his accuracy. He also had a special setup with fiberglas arrows, white shafts with red plastic fletching, along with a reel to hold fishing line. With this rig, he hoped to harvest fish in shallow waters.

Dad was a fly fisher. He had wading overalls, those plastic coated cloth pants that come up to your chest. The shoe soles were covered with felt, that could add traction underwater. He would go to nearby rivers and try to catch trout. I don’t think he was ever successful.

Dad was a freshwater fisherman. He learned this hobby from his father. One day the three of us were out on a lake in middle Tennessee, in a campground boat, fishing. I remember that I caught one fish. They caught a lot of fish. The stringer had 36 fish on it, by the end of the day. We ate some later that evening. I still have a few of his lures in my garage. Hard to believe a fish would be attracted to these wooden plugs, covered in shellac. One day, out on Norris Lake, we were together on a boat. Towards the end of the day, he flipped open a can of coke. In those days, the cans were opened with a pull-ring and a tab that separated from the cans. Dad always dropped the ring into the can, so as not to litter. Drinking the coke, he gulped a bit, and grimaced. I asked what was wrong. He let me know that he had swallowed the pull ring and tab, accidentally. No stress, just matter of fact. He reasoned that the stomach acid would process the metal, and no harm would occur. Being a metallurgist, and using acid to etch metal, I suppose he knew what he was talking about.

Dad was an car nut, I think, albeit a practical one. Our first car was a 1958 Chevrolet, in which I managed to scar my forehead when he made a sudden stop and I slammed into the rear edge of the front seat. Our second car was a 1963 Chevrolet Impala he inherited. Our third car was a 1964 Pontiac Bonneville wagon, which was a step up. It was white with a blue vinyl interior with many chrome knobs and buttons.

Later, he purchased a VW van, light blue with a white top. When Mom needed a car, he chose an Audi Super 90, the only one in town. He was always proud that he put Mom in a safe car with front wheel drive. No one else had front wheel drive.

Dad was a mechanic. He could fix anything. One day I remember that he pulled the Pontiac Bonneville wagon into the garage. A few days later, it came out with a new paint job. He had purchased a small air compressor, paint sprayer, plastic sheets to surround the garage walls, sand paper, body putty, and a respirator to protect his lungs. How long it took to prepare the car and paint it, I don’t know. But, he made the car last a few more years with his hard work.

Dad was a teacher. Working on the VW van, one evening, he allowed me to help. I looked into the engine compartment and saw a corrugated silver pipe. Being about eight years old, I grabbed it and said “What does this do?” At that moment, I ripped it into two pieces. I was a bit scared of the consequences, but Dad explained what the pipe did, to cool the boxer engine, and simply purchased a replacement part.

Dad was an architect, of sorts. He had a drawing board, with a T-square, and all sorts of triangles and templates. He created designs of buildings, homes, and projects. I remember marveling at his precise draftsman lettering, and emulated it. Still do.

Dad was a language scholar. I remember him when at a church the Apostle’s Creed is spoken. At Saint John’s Lutheran Church, he would always loudly speak the word Pontius with careful enunciation, pon-tee-us, instead of the common pon-chus heard from all other voices. He knew that Latin was a precise language and did not have the smushing together of sounds. I was always embarrassed to hear him say it differently than everyone else, and loudly. He also spoke German, being from Saint Louis, where German culture dominated for decades. He had quite a few German language textbooks. I think he also had the Bible in German.

Dad like bicycling. He bought me the absolute coolest bike in the neighborhood, one that looked exactly like a motorcycle. It was called the Mattel V-RROOM! It had a plastic engine below a hollow gas tank, pedals that spun where the transmission would be, wide tires, a real handlebar with plastic grips, a headlight, a tailight, fenders, a long banana seat, and it even had a sound generator to simulate the engine noise. For some reason, I wanted Hot Wheels cars and track, and didn’t have enough in my collection. I traded away that bike for a full complement of Hot Wheels cars and track and all sorts of things to go along with them. He was sad to see the bike go.

Later, Dad and Mom bought me a Schwinn Apple Krate bicycle. It was, again, the coolest bike in the neighborhood. Somehow they hid it in the attic, and brought it down to surprise me at Christmas. That bike was amazing. I kept it for years.

Dad also bought a ten-speed for him, and a five-speed for Mom. The bikes had matching dark green paint. Of course they were Schwinns. I think he wanted biking to be a family hobby, and to grow our family closer together. I don’t know if he ever rode his Schwinn Continental, though. It stayed in the basement a lot.

Dad was a photographer. When he lived with us, he shot Yashica double-lens reflex cameras, with 120 mm film. I would sometimes find him loading unexposed bulk film into canisters in his bedroom, under the heavy bedspread which blocked light. He enjoyed shooting nature and buildings. I don’t remember seeing any portraits taken, but he did shoot hundreds of images of me and my sister, which made it into brown leatherette albums that had flipping plastic windows to hold the pictures.

Dad was a more than a photographer, having a full darkroom in the basement. He had a Beseler enlarger, chemicals in cabinets, a red safe light, and somehow managed to create 8 x 10 black and white images while processing them in an old metal double sink that held the trays of developing solutions. I think he traded a pistol for the developing equipment, as money was tight yet he wanted to do something new.

Dad was a musician. He played the piano, a baby grand Knabe with an incredible under keyboard Ampico player system. We had dozens of player piano rolls, but the mechanism was broken. The varnish on the piano was “crazed” with a million myriad cracks traversing the original black finish. It still sounded good, and he played Rachmaninoff, Tchaichovsky, and Beethoven. I always wanted to hear Moonlight Sonata, and I still have the sheet music he used. Dad encouraged me to be a musician, taking me to a violin group concert when I was four. I started that year.

For reasons I will never fully know, Dad and Mom divorced. They separated in 1972, and the divorce was final in 1973. The divorce was based in part on his inability to refrain from anger, and to be kind to Mom. I think seeing this behavior, at my young age, I had become angry with my father, and didn’t want to see him after the divorce.

He returned to our first home from our second home, which had been retained as an investment property. It was less than a mile away. Being the house next door to “Aunt” Reva and “Uncle” Jack, who were dear family friends, I had occasion to visit them as my Mom was often working late hours as a realtor. Aunt Reva would make dinner for us, and for dessert we would have vanilla ice cream scoops in Coca-Cola.

At my young age walking there seemed to take forever. But I would go there, sometimes stopping by after school. He lived in the apartment in the back of the house, and rented the main house out for income. I would sometimes see Dad at his house when I would visit them. It was not easy. I remember making excuses to visit Aunt Reva just to see my Dad walking around. It was hard on me. I can’t imagine what he must have felt.

Many years later, I reconnected with my father. I was in Ohio, married, with two kids. His manager, at TVA, where he was working, somehow found me and asked me to contact my Dad. I think my father wasn’t doing too well, emotionally, and needed someone. I imagine that his manager heard about the divorce, the kids, and made the effort to find me. It took some thinking, but I decided that I could completely dismiss the entire past, and just talk to him as engineers might talk. I remember the first conversation lasting some two hours. I told him of my career, my family, my hobbies, and he related well to these. It seemed like we were father and son, again, and I never asked anything about the past. I decided that the only thing that mattered was the present.

After that first connection, we had moved to North Carolina, and my father visited us there. He drove an ancient Ford Bronco across the mountains from Jefferson City to Kings Mountain, and spent the night with us. He brought gifts for our daughters, well-chosen books, for a man who had never seen his granddaughters or knew anything about them. One of the books was about Picasso.

The next day, we had a pancake breakfast, and he drove home. Today, recalling that visit, I can only imagine the heart-rending emotions of not being part of your own family he must have felt.

We stayed in contact. One day we had plans to see him at exit 417 on I-40, at a favorite restaurant. He didn’t show. I called his girlfriend of many years, and learned that his health was poor. He finally had to leave his home and go to a nursing home for care. We visited there once, escorted by his girlfriend, and had lunch together. It was so hard seeing him in decline. He couldn’t communicate verbally. He could barely walk. His weight had increased to life-threatening levels.

Some time later I learned that Dad passed away, from his girlfriend. He died December 30, 2009. It had been so many years since I had last seen him. The funeral had already been held. His body had been cremated. His remains were given to me. Being separated from him all those years, it seemed quite surreal to have the remains.

My Mom, who loved him, even after all this time, realized that he loved the water, and would probably love for his ashes to be scattered in a lake. We made a special trip from North Carolina to her vacation home on the lake. Out on the dock, in the flowing water, we sprinkled the ashes. I watched them drift away, slowly, between the shore and the island just a football field away. Tears flowed, as his tears had flowed at his father’s funeral.

Today, Father’s Day, I realize how influential my father was in my life. I am grateful, thankful, and somewhat amazed as I see so many parallels between he and I. Reflecting on these similarities, one could reasonably conclude that many are of “nature” rather than “nurture,” since he was not part of my life except the first ten years. At the same time, one could wonder if my life choices are in some way a quest for acceptance by a father I could not have. I think all children want to be accepted by their father, many times through emulation.

Thankfully in my growing up years, after the divorce, I had Uncle Jack who helped me learn to pitch a baseball, listen to sports radio, watch the evening news, and play cards. I also had Uncle Bob who married Aunt Reva after Uncle Jack died. Uncle Bob was an engineer’s engineer, a professor emeritus from UT, who shared life lessons for many years. He beat me regularly at chess, praising my middle game which of course was useless for actually winning. He showed me how to think about problems, like getting a washer and dryer down a double right angle stairway to his basement. I also had my Big Brother Lawrence, an engineer who retired from Robertshaw, who got me the introduction there for my first real job. Lawrence took me places for recreation, taught me to drive, shared his pontoon boat on the lake, fed me many dinners, and gave me great awareness of right living. These men filled the void left by my father, and in God’s Providence, gave me a new understanding of what it was like to be a man, a husband, a provider, and a father. Without them, I would surely be lost today.

So I’ve had four fathers here on this earth. Not many men are that fortunate. The love of Uncle Jack, Uncle Bob, and Lawrence for a young man not their own for so many years is a testament to God’s grace in their lives. My own father’s influences remain with me as well. I’m happy that I’m his son. I sometimes hope to see him again, and let him know that.

Most of all, on this Father’s Day, I am grateful that I am accepted and loved by my Heavenly Father. He alone fulfills me, redeems me, and carries me along this journey we call life. May I always seek to honor Him.