He loved being a dad

My dad died 67 years ago on the Feast of St. Joseph. My mind is still filled with so many fond memories of a sweet, quiet, playful, strong and loving father. I remember just the two of us traveling to the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Canada. Each morning, we would canoe and portage to find the right spot to catch our breakfast and to fish a little longer.

One day my dad suggested that, instead of portaging, that we tie a rope to the canoe and guide it through the rapids. Great idea, I thought, until we saw our canoe break free of the rope and glide out into open water. We looked at each other and laughed, and I dove into the cold Canadian waters to rescue our canoe. I felt so good being able to bring the canoe back to my dad because, just a few years earlier, I didn’t know how to swim.

I remember seeing my dad in the stands as he watched me play college football on a cold, rainy night in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. After a long drive from Chicago, he was huddled there by himself, silently cheering me on. I felt so bad seeing him there in the rain but knew there was no other place in the world he would rather be.

Once, when my dad and I visited the Museum of Science and Industry, a bus full of Black kids arrived. Soon, older white kids started throwing rocks and yelling racist obscenities. Without hesitation, my dad took on the dozen or so white kids, chasing them out of the parking lot. I’ve always wondered if the actions of my dad that day were an inspiration for me going to Selma, Alabama, in 1965.

Often, after returning home after a long day at work, my dad and I would play ball along the side of our house. He cut out the center of his glove to be more sure of his catches. I asked him if it hurt when he caught the ball. He never said it did.

My dad and I still play together but now only in my memory of a man who loved being my father. I still cry remembering what it was like to be his son.