The impact of a father

I lost my dad 51 years ago tonight. I was alone by his bedside there in the hospital in Richardson. I’d been there every night after work for a couple of months. I did all the talking. He seemed to listen. I think he was understanding. I must have told him, “I love you” and “Thank you” a thousand times over.

He and mom had finished their degrees at the University of Nebraska in the mid-1920s. He was a new PhD in botany. Married, they took their first jobs in little Alpine, Texas, where he headed the Biology Department at Sul Ross State Teachers College.

For 17 years they hoped to have children, but by the time he was 42 and Mom was 39 it had become obvious that adoption would be their only hope.

They applied 7 hours away down in San Antonio. One night the phone rang. And that’s when our lives intersected. Soon I became the newest resident of Alpine.

My dad didn’t inherit me biologically. He chose me legally. And most especially, emotionally.

He dedicated the rest of his life to me. We moved to College Station where he co-founded the Range and Forestry Department at A&M in 1946.

That’s where my dad taught me how to garden. I remember my very first garden. I was 6. He did all the hard work, but it was my garden and those were my beans as I went running to the house to share them with Mom.

My dad taught me to hammer. I still have that hammer.

He taught me to paint. I still have his cleaned brushes.

He taught me how to roof, and he taught me how to build.

He taught me how to stand straight and look people right in their eyes.

And how to shake hands.

And how to be kind and considerate. And that I wasn’t better or worse than anyone else.

I never saw my dad angry. But when I got my two spankings, he was the one who administered them. They were deserved, and we talked about why. He was constant, and he was consistent.

He was always there in the stands when I played right field in the Little League. I’ve coached since then, and I know it’s not the stars who play in right field.

He took me to Aggie basketball games when they were just terrible. I loved sitting beside him.

And he came to my 7th grade basketball games when I was just terrible. He saw me score my career total 2 points, and he congratulated me.

He took me to wholesale nurseries in Conroe and Houston and Spring. He drove me around College Station to plant trees, shrubs, and sod before I got my driver’s license.

And he took me on summertime work trips as he did research on herbicides at remote ranches in West Texas. Those were golden times I’ll never forget.

When I think of my dad, I think of me there beside him.

When I decided as a junior that I needed to transfer from A&M to the much stronger Floriculture program at Ohio State my dad understood. He managed a smile and promised his support. It must have hurt him to watch me drive out of Brazos County. I well up as I type that – putting myself back in his shoes.

I’ve spent a lifetime remembering that my dad taught me what a real father is supposed to look like.

I’ve tried to hand that off to our children as Lynn and I have raised them, but I’m not there yet. However, judging from the children they have raised and are raising, my dad is still out there guiding our family.

And so it is. I’ll end this evening as I ended that evening 51 years ago tonight – with a whisper:

“I love you, Dad. Thanks for being my father.”

Note: Our son Brian and his wife chose to name their youngest child, our youngest grandson Nolan Edison Sperry. I knew immediately what that meant and I broke down in tears.