write a story on father s day
Answers
My dad was an outdoorsman, pure and simple. He once said he felt closer to God when he was in the woods in the mountains than anywhere else. He was a capable fly-fisherman, a crack shot with a rifle, and he taught me the woodcraft that I know. He weighed 150 pounds and could pick up a 100-pound bag of chicken feed, put it on one shoulder, put another on the other shoulder and carry them a hundred yards to the feed house (I was expected to manage a third one). He worked in the Civilian Conservation Corps and took correspondence courses to become a civil engineer. He helped build the big canals in Florida and the road west out of Denver in the mountains. His advice was simple: Finish what you start. If you work for someone else, give them a full day’s work for a day’s pay. If you don’t like the work, give fair notice and move on instead of giving trouble or a poor performance. His love of books rubbed off on me. He had a large easy chair and would put my brother on one side and me on the other and read to us. He said every book has at least a page of good information or ideas. He had a paperback library with over a thousand books and classic hardcover editions of White Fang, Rolf in the Woods, The Young Savages and the Bible. I miss him
My Dad: A Father’s Day Story
I have many memories of my dad, Peter J. Garden. He had many special qualities: he was loving, compassionate, funny, and extremely intelligent. Dad loved his sports, all sports—that’s where I got my love for them. We watched football every Sunday during football season. We had a variety of company to go along with it. My mom would cook a delicious dinner for us all too. This is a memory I will always treasure. There are memories of family parties with my Dad singing and joking with family and friends, taking my brothers and me to the Harlem Globetrotters basketball games, he took me to the Ice Follies and would also go to my boyfriend’s basketball games when I was in high school. He was an all-around great dad. My memories stopped in August of 1997, when my Dad passed away at the age of sixty-six. But the ones I do have will always be there.
The things my Dad did, to me, were above and beyond at times. Like, when he had the boys in the neighborhood give him all their football helmets and he drew the symbols of their favorite football team on the helmets. Then on the weekends, we would all gather up at the land next to my Grandma Nellie’s house and play football. But not just any football, the field was chalked up with the yard lines and the numbers of those lines. My Dad was the only adult playing with them too.