A Letter to My Father
Happy Father's Day, Dad
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Happy Father's Day, Dad
Dad,
I need you to know some things. Not at your eulogy — now. While you can read this and know that your life mattered. That everything you did mattered. That I saw it all, even when I didn't say so.
You were the first one who took me hunting. I remember stopping off an exit on I-87 heading toward Ausable Forks, pulling out cans and bottles, and shooting them with my BB gun. That was one of my first memories of ever doing something like that. You gave me that.
And even before that — I was maybe three or four years old — you and Grandma and Grandpa had me out there shooting a shotgun. I think there are pictures somewhere. Looking back now, I know God had us on overwatch that day. But you were the one who put me there.
Dad, I've never forgotten that hunting trip to Washington County. Cambridge. Salem. Across from Clark's Dairy Farm. You got me out of school for it. I know that could've gotten you in trouble — New York isn't Wisconsin where they practically close the schools for hunting season. But you did it anyway.
You knew what really mattered.
That lesson shaped me as a Marine. Instead of being so caught up in rules, I learned to do what was right by my Marines. I learned that from you.
I remember driving down on Sunday, stopping at the little Stewart's store, scouting the area, seeing deer running around. The excitement. The anticipation. And Dad — you were so happy. Looking back now, I realize you felt like a king out there. Sharing what you loved with me. That joy was contagious, and I carry it still.
There's a moment I need to tell you about.
We were sitting on that hill overlooking Clark's Farm. It was just about sunrise. You made sure I had the best part of that fallen tree to sit on. You took the other side. You didn't announce it. You just did it. That's who you are.
I could see the cornfield off to the right. The Clark's house. The barn. Every once in a while, I'd hear the cows mooing.
And then I heard the school bus in the distance. Coming through, shifting gears, cycling down to the stop sign, turning off. Those were the kids going to school. And I thought: Thank God I'm not on that bus. I felt so blessed to be right there, with you.
Dad, that moment saved me.
Later — on the rifle range, in the chaos, when I needed peace — I would close my eyes, take a deep breath, and go back to that hillside. The sunrise. The bus. The cows. You next to me. I'd be right there again. That moment you gave me became my refuge.
I got my tranquility from you.
And that same day, we heard noise off to our right — that spike horn coming around. You were so excited, kept asking if I saw it. And we got that deer together. I'll never forget it.
Dad, it took me a long time to understand something.
You didn't hug me much. But you were always giving me snacks — brownies, apples, bananas, cheese crackers, peanut butter crackers. You always made sure I was taken care of.
I finally understand: those crackers were hugs.
That was your way of holding me. Providing for me. Loving me. And I received every single one.
You drove me across the entire country to military school. I was so tired, so worn out — I probably wouldn't have made it on my own. But you got me there. And then you flew home, and I remember taking you to the airport. I've never forgotten that time with you.
You were there for boot camp graduation with Aunt Rose. You were there when I graduated drill instructor school. Even Mom came. But Dad — you were always there.
You helped me with the four-wheeler situation when I'd been riding on the road when I wasn't supposed to. You didn't lecture. You just helped.
You've always been in my corner. You've never let me down. Not once.
Dad, it took me a lot of years to understand what true strength is. What true wisdom is. What being a man actually means.
It's not what I saw in the movies. It's not loud. It's not flashy.
It's you.
It's showing up. It's giving someone the best seat. It's driving across the country when you're exhausted. It's packing crackers and brownies. It's getting your son out of school because some things matter more than rules. It's being in someone's corner no matter what they've done.
That's what a man is. I learned it from you.
Dad, I've let you down. Many times. There's no excuse for it.
But I know that in spite of all that, you still see the good in me. You still love me.
That's God's love, Dad. Even if you don't talk much about Him — that's what it looks like. I've seen it in you my whole life.
It's been too long since I've seen you. Almost seven years. Maybe more. That's too long. And it hurts. I miss you so much. The other day was your birthday, and I felt the weight of all that time.
I need you to know:
I love you, Dad. I think you're the greatest man I've ever known.
I wouldn't make that up. It took me a lot of years to get to that place — to understand what greatness really looks like. But I'm there now. And I see it. I see you.
Thank you for being my father. Thank you for the hunting trips, the snacks, the early mornings, the best seat on the log, the joy you shared, the times you showed up, the corner you never left.
Thank you for everything.
I love you.
Your Son
P.S. — I still go back to that hillside sometimes. In my mind, I close my eyes, and I'm there. The sun coming up. The bus in the distance. The cows. And you, right there beside me. You gave me that. It's mine forever.
And now I get to give it to him.
The hillside lives on.