Every Father’s Day, I find myself thinking less about the big moments with my dad and more about the small acts of love that shaped me: books, lunches packed with care, quiet steadiness, and the daily thoughtfulness of making sure his family had enough.
My father grew up as a small child under the shadow and weight of the Great Depression. Over 35 years ago, he wrote me a letter, which I keep in my bedside table. I bring it out to read from time to time. He wrote, “I remember how excited I was during the Depression when we moved into a rundown old house with a rundown garden in the back, and I found enough squashes in the garden to feed us all for supper. That’s poor.”
He went on to say, “I hope you will always have enough to eat and a nice place to live and warm and pretty clothing to wear because I love you very much. — Dad.” I reflect often on his desire to protect us from the poverty he faced. His wish was that we never want for the things he went without. My father’s response to hardship became the inheritance.
When I was small, he was asked to relocate from Washington, DC, to a city in the Midwest to open a regional office. He chose Kansas City because we could have a large garden, an orchard, and dairy cows out in the nearby country. He could make sure his family didn’t go without food, like he did as a child. After a full day at the office, he taught night classes as an adjunct professor at the university to help provide for us. Dad would get up early, milk the cows, change into his suit, drive to work in the city, spend the evening teaching, then drive home.
Sometimes my father would come home from the store, bags bulging with things that weren’t on the shopping list simply because he thought my mom would enjoy the surprises. Because he could.
He worked hard in the garden alongside my mother, planting flowers and keeping it up because it made my mom happy. Even as he got older, Dad rarely complained as the work grew harder for him. I think he saw it as a privilege to have a home and an enviable yard, and he took pride in beautifying it.
My dad read us all the best books. As often as he could, he’d read to us at bedtime or make his own stories up, adding on to them each night. We were always gifted a book at Christmas, and he was sure to write something special in it to remember him by. He took us to the library’s summer reading program each Saturday. He knew books opened up worlds to explore and ideas to consider. He always had a book going, and we loved wandering the local used bookstore and library book sales together.
Dad loved the outdoors and animals, and by his example, I came to love them too. Back in Missouri in the 1980s, the conservation department would allow people to purchase an otter. He and I sat by the fireplace in winter, writing inquiry letters and dreaming of making friends with this extraordinary being. The budget and other realities didn’t allow for it, of course, but I still have the letters and the memories of our big plans together. The cats, dogs, and even the cows would follow him like the Pied Piper. Animals trusted my dad. They knew.
When he still worked downtown, one magical and eagerly anticipated day each summer, we’d go with Dad to see what a day at the office looked like. He’d work at his big desk, then take us out to lunch. At the end of the afternoon, we’d walk down the street to the teacher’s supply store and do our back-to-school shopping. I understand now what delight he must have taken in watching us. After the hardships he faced, splurging on school supplies must have felt like a dream for him.
When I was older, my father worked from home. If he had time, he would take a break from his calls to stir up some Cream of Wheat for me before school. Often, he walked me to the bus stop, listening to me fret over the worries of the day. If I missed the bus, he put everything on pause and drove me to school in town, stopping at a local donut shop first—an Old Fashioned for him. A Boston Cream for me.
Sometimes, Dad would pack me a lunch: a sandwich accompanied by a bundle of carrot sticks that was absolutely enormous. Impossible to eat all of them, too big to wrap my hands around. He peeled, cut, and prepared this carrot forest for my lunch bag. I remember smiling because I knew his heart. He wanted me to have the plenty that he often went without.
One day, when I was seventeen, someone bumped my car in a parking lot, punching a small hole into the taillight. I was so distraught. Dad calmly looked it over and said, “This wasn’t your fault, and it really is just a small thing. I’ll call to have it repaired.” Then he quietly unwrapped a package of Twinkies, handed me one small golden cake, took the other for himself, and draped an arm across my shoulder as he walked me into the house. I was hard enough on myself for the both of us. He saw that. What I remember most was the steady calm. The gentle way he handled it. I have tried to use the taillight/Twinkie moment as a model in my own life.
My father sang as he washed the dinner dishes each night, which taught me to find joy in ordinary work. I remember the time we put a rubber band around the handle of the spray hose. When he turned it on, what a surprise! But he didn’t get mad about his soaked shirt. He laughed along with the rest of us. I don’t mind washing the dishes. It is at the kitchen sink that I feel close to him.
Dad took me canoeing and hiking. Taught me to whittle and whistle. We went camping a few times. He would set up his old smelly army tent in the backyard for us. He took me fishing on peaceful Sunday mornings at the nearby waterfall. Since my father tied the knots and set up the tents, I was never especially skilled at camping or fishing. But I did want my children to inherit the same sense of wonder my father gave me. I believe they have.
Supporting our interests was important to Dad. He would wait for me in the car while I had singing lessons and activities, glad for a little uninterrupted time to read. Dad loved living in Germany as a younger man and was thrilled when I joined the German Club. He insisted that I go on the school exchange trip and saw to it that I went. It changed me. Thank you, Dad.
As a veteran of two foreign wars, my father was honored at a Memorial Day service. Our family was presented with a flag in his honor. My father believed deeply in service to country, community, and doing what was right, even when it was difficult. Those values and his commitment to integrity remain examples to our family and all who knew him. I think he would be proud to know my youngest son recently became an Eagle Scout.
These events shaped him, and his response to them, in turn, shaped me. Work hard. Learn how your food grows. Be kind. Be cheerful. Be grateful. Create beauty and abundance from your own hands. Be kind. Be cheerful. Be grateful. Express love through daily thoughtfulness. I learned these lessons at my father’s knee.
Long after the echo of his life fades, my father’s influence and love will remain in the rhythms of my own family’s life. This is his quiet legacy.
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Rebecca Atanassova loves writing books for children. Inspired by simple and amusing moments with her three children, Rebecca shares stories about kindness, love, acceptance, positivity, and the wonder found all around us. Her book Your Heart Can Hold the Whole Universe is an Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite. Rebecca’s childhood friendship with another pet mouse helped her bring George the Mouse in a Log Pile House to life.
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