My dad was not the perfect man. He had a big problem with alcohol. It ended up killing him at age 48 right before I turned 18. So many stories of drunken escapades can be told. But I loved him for the man that he was when, as my grandmother would say, when he didn’t have the drink in him.

My dad knew how to grow things. Our garden was amazing. We had a plum tree, tangerine tree, peach tree, orange tree, roses, vegetables, flowers, cactus and succulents galore. We would often sit in the yard together and dig out the weeds from the lawn. He taught me about pruning, mulching, planting, and care for all our plants. He would take me with him to the nursery and show me how to pick out healthy plants.

My dad knew how to sew. He would make us clothes. He made my prom dress. He made me a handbag for school. He recovered a couch and a chair. I learned how to sew and that sometimes swearing at the project is necessary. I still have his sewing machine and still use it.

My dad knew how to crochet. He entered the Del Mar Fair with two of his bedspreads and won first place in the general category. One has an amazing pineapple design; the other has 3-D roses. These were to be my brother and my wedding presents. Neither he nor my brother lived long enough for that. I have them both along with a few other pieces of his.

I spent many hours playing cards with him. He would sit in his chair, the ottoman was the playing surface, and I’d be on the floor in front of him. He taught me how to shuffle. This is one of my special memories of him.

We painted and wallpapered stuff around the house together. I was always his helper. My brother was busy being a bookworm genius resentful of any interruptions. I was more than happy to spend time with my dad. Whenever we painted, I was in charge of painting the left-handed corners of things. He seemed to be able to invent solutions to household repairs. I fully accept my unusual way of thinking about problems as well as my stubborn streak from his examples.

He taught me how to pack efficiently. He took some suitcases and a couple of boxes out to the car one day. He said, “See if you can fit all this into the trunk.” He guided me with, “Try to turn it that way,” and “Now that will fit over there.” He had me unpack it, got a couple more boxes, and had me pack it again. I attribute my Tetris packing skills to this valuable lesson.

After my father’s death, more than one person had been more than freaked out just how like him I am. I speak like him without the Indiana accent – the phraseology and the gestures are his. I look like him. I have had more than one person ask when I took the old-timey picture in drag that is his high school photo. I have both my parents silly sense of humor and his playful attitude.

I miss my dad. I’d like to show him my cactus and succulent collection. I’d like to make him an amazing dinner. I’d like to play a game of cards with him. Mostly, I’d like to hear him laugh again.

Thanks for being the best dad you knew how to be. Happy Father’s day Daddy, wherever you are.