I don’t know that I could pinpoint the first thing I remember. Truth be told, I have a terrible memory. When someone brings up an event from my childhood, I often remember it with some prodding, but sometimes not. And my memories tend to be all jumbled together. For the most part, things are either now or not now anymore. I’m amazed by people who can line up their past in neat order from oldest to most recent and can tell you who was with them when and where it was and what color their shoes were. The best I can do most of the time when I run into a former student is age them based on what room I was in when I was their teacher. “You were, let me see, a 111 kid, so that must have been 2007, right?” And don’t even expect me to remember your name, unless you were especially memorable for some specific reason reason or we’ve stayed in touch.

My first memory of my father is not, I believe, an actual memory. It happened, if it actually did happen, when I was too young to remember. It’s just one of those stories that’s been told by the family so often it has become a “memory” to me. It was of him shaking his finger in my face scoldingly, only to have me bite his finger. He couldn’t stay mad, of course. I’m told he instead ended up laughing. I heard that at nearly every family holiday or gathering, along with the one about how I busted Cousin Janice’s nose for not surrendering my pedal car when I wanted her to. Someone who is smarter than I might correct me, but I feel like if you don’t have an actual image to attach to a story, it’s just that–a story, and nothing more. But I digress.

I can’t point to a clear first memory from my childhood, with or without Dad. What stand out in my memories of him are things that happened over and over, like playing catch or passing a football or playing one of my handheld video games or bowling or going to Uncle Mike’s to put up hay or hunt or watching literally thousands of sporting events together or him asking for help on the crossword puzzle in the newspaper or coming to nearly all my sporting events and choir and theater performances. I guess the pattern is of a dad who was involved in my life.

I don’t mean to whitewash things. Dad wasn’t always warm. I never saw him cry. I was an adult before we ever said we loved each other. He was downright cranky at times. A lot of that has to do with how he was raised, I’m sure. And I remember thinking he was tight-fisted. Looking back, I realize that was a necessity. One income, albeit a good one for that time, and four kids, three of whom were boys who could eat like bears coming out of hibernation, had to stretch the budget and his patience. But I also remember laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. And knowing if I needed help with anything, from a clogged pipe to being short on cash until payday, all I had to do was ask Dad. And never questioning whether I was accepted as I was, if not always understood.

It’s been nearly a month since Dad died, and I, of course, still miss him. Mostly I’m okay, but then something comes along and just brings the sadness back like a heavy wet blanket. Sometimes it’s an event on a TV show or a song lyric. I can tell you for sure, avoid Dan Fogelberg’s “Leader of the Band” if you’ve recently lost your dad. But mostly it’s when I’m getting ready to watch sports, especially a WVU game. Dad and I loved watching the Mountaineers together. A couple of Saturdays ago, I was happy to see I had time to watch a WVU game on TV. For a split second, I thought, “Maybe I’ll go watch it with Dad.” And then it struck me–I’ll never get to do that again. My heart felt constricted, like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed it. I almost skipped the game, but I watched it in his honor, thinking about what we might have talked about as the game progressed. Appropriately, the Mounties took a whipping.

He wasn’t just my dad. He was my friend. He taught me a lot of what I know about being a friend. He taught me you don’t quit loving someone when they disappoint you and friends are there for each other, even when they probably don’t deserve it. There have been lots of times when I haven’t deserved it, but I can’t think of a single time he wasn’t there for me.

I miss him. I’ll miss him until the day I die.