I find myself this Sunday thinking about fathers and specifically my father. We don’t get a choice about who we get for a father. I was very fortunate in that respect; my father was the best.
My dad, Rod Daggett, was born in 1916 in Southern California. The area that he lived his entire childhood was one where a large group that had come to California from Maine had settled in the early 1900s. As a result, Dad was a native Californian with a Maine accent. He smiled a lot and had a great laugh. He could fix or make just about anything. He was a leader in the church that I grew up in and also in the local theater organ society. A great many people counted him as their friend.
My parents marriage was the second for both of them. Dad never differentiated between his step children and his biological children. We were all his. In the bottom picture above, my sister Cathy and I are sitting on the floor with Dad and my oldest nephew, Don. As far as Dad was concerned that was his first grandson. Dad loved all of his grandchildren and they all thought that he was the best.
Dad passed away 2 years ago, about a week after his 96th birthday. In his later years he talked about parts of his life that he had been reluctant to discuss in the past. His years in the service during World War 2, his life trying to find work during the depression and other old memories came out. When his final day came he was in his recliner and at peace. He went to sleep for a nap and never woke up.
I miss my Dad every day. There are times when I see things and think that it would be something that he would have loved to hear about.
In the “What Parents Will You Get?” lottery, I was given the a winner.