I was shaving a few days ago when my train of thought turned to my father and how much I owe to him.  It started with me thinking how how wiry but well-muscled he was...never an ounce of fat on him...until the day he died.  That was because he worked at a job that was physically demanding every day...for an entire career.  They called those jobs "blue collar", and I think the implication was "less intelligent".  But my dad was no dummy...though he received only a high school education (actually pretty good in his time), he was sharp mentally, and I experienced that in many informal debates we had (some people would call them arguments) as I grew up and became mister smartypants. 

I think, however, that he wanted more for his children, and this made him a target for every travelling encyclopedia salesman that happened down our dead-end street.  Our shelves had The Book Of Knowledge (22 volumes, NOT in alphabetic order...you had to look your topic up in an index); The World Book Encyclopedia (24 volumes, more traditional alphabetic arrangement, and most impressive...a graphic of the human body with several systemic overlays); Lands and People (7 volumes, each one covering a different continent I think...pretty much what it sounds like); and a science encyclopedia whose title I forget (10 volumes, I don't remember how it was arranged...I rarely used it).  The point being, he wanted us to have resources he didn't have, and trusted that it would lead to opportunities beyond "blue  collar".

When Dave and I were in the 4-6 range, he would lay down with us for a Saturday or Sunday afternoon nap, and read to us stories  out of the set "My Book House", a 13 volume set of classical stories arranged in order from younger to adolescent audiences.  We loved his reading, the idea of which was to get us to sleep.  Invariably he would fall asleep before us (he worked so hard), and we would peacefully sneak out to other delights. 

He could also be very persistent in encouraging us to do our best, in spite of our lesser aspirations for ourselves.  I remember that after my first year in little league ( he was my assistant coach that year)  my batting style was such that the bat becoming acquainted with the ball was extremely unlikely,  based on the few chance meetings I gave them.  The next spring there was a day where, in our front yard, my dad pitched relentlessly to me two mostly deflated rubber balls (large enough to make contact likely, heavy enough to make distance unlikely).  I remember being so frustrated I was in tears, and my mom was worried that he was engaging in some kind of emotional abuse, but we kept at it all morning, and by the end, my muscle memory had kicked in, and I became a middle-of-the- order hitter for the rest of my baseball and softball experience.  Maurine and Michelle could tell you some tennis and tether-ball stories as well.

I also remember Dad was at every concert I ever played in...and I am sure some of them weren't all that pleasant. He was my Scoutmaster for two years, and I remember being so proud of him leading us.  He was great on the adventure side..we came to know such camping areas off the beaten path as Rock Canyon (before the temple was there) and Squaw Peak; Mercur (on the west side of Utah Lake, kind of by Tooele), an abandoned mining camp from the 19th century; and Goblin Valley, the closest I got to the delights of southern Utah.

He could be hilariously goofy at times (check out the photo I added to the December 25, 2017 entry for an example), and had a quick wit, matched only by my Mom's.

Anyway, I was just so grateful I was reduced to tears...good tears...for the man that was my father.  I miss him.  I look forward to seeing him again.