In honor of Father’s Day, a couple stories about my dad. First, my mom left my biological father after he hit her (again) when he was drunk (again), but this time I was only 2 weeks old and in her arms. He knocked her backward in a rocking chair. She had nothing, just 2 babies.

She married my dad just 2 days after I turned 1. For all intents and purposes, he is my father. He sat in the stands for all my games. He taught me the value of hard work. He walked me down the aisle. He was there right after the delivery of each baby.

He’s got a *wicked* wit. Quick and can keep a straight face. My sister and I both learned this and it’s one of my favorite things to do to people.

When we got spam calls, he’d answer and they’d ask for him. He’d reply “oh he died.” Of course the other people would say “oh I’m so sorry!” And he always said “it’s ok we didn’t like him very much.”

He’s 76 and still golfs and cycles and works and mountain bikes and lifts. He’s a machine. He knocked a bottom front tooth out last fall after a mountain bike crash. He refuses to get it fixed because he just doesn’t care. My mom hates it.

At a Christmas party at one of their affluent friends’ homes, he pretended he bit into something and it fell out. He had all these people literally on their hands and knees looking for his tooth while he was just cracking up.

Anyway, that’s my dad and I love him. I love that he raised us like his own and was so proud the day he adopted us so we could legally take his last name. I love the way he gives me a quick glance when people say how much we look alike. Love you, dad.