There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about my dad. He passed away nine years ago come August, and his grave is the only one I’ve ever visited.
Dad (technically he was my stepfather) taught me much: He introduced me to golf and the joy of veering off the course to hunt battered Titleists for an hour. He enticed me to eat guacamole (hated it the first time, like it now). He took me to my first R-rated movie, Bruce Lee’s “Fist of Fury.”
Mostly, though, he just loved me.
In 30 years, he got mad at me only once, and that was because I ran over his prized toolbox. I defused the situation by reminding him that it was he who left it in the driveway.
He got slightly peeved at me another time: When I was in high school, I injured my big toe and was laid up a couple of days one summer. Dad trudged up and down the steps to bring me three squares a day. On the second day, he asked me how I hurt my toe. My answer, “Kicking [my brother] Jeff,” did not sit well.