When I was five years old I had my tonsils out, and staying in the hospital at that age is frightening. Of course, mom and dad were there when I came out of the ether and held me when I threw up (yes, ether -- it was a long time ago). Finally, after a couple of either centuries or days, they took me home.

Two weeks later, my father, a carpenter, was fatally injured at work. He lingered in the hospital a couple of days before dying. At the time I was 5, my brothers 4 and 2, and my sister 3 months to the day.

I don't have Father's Day memories.

What I do have is what we learned about him from my mother, who lived another 31 years. Apparently he single-handedly won WWII, invented penicillin, flew the world nonstop in a glider, and beat everything Pecos Bill, Stormalong, Feibold Feiboldson, and Paul Bunyan ever even thought of doing. Of course, he was a modest man and let others take the credit for everything he did.

His wife was modest, too. She had no real accomplishments (she said) apart from raising four kids. Without a husband. Without much income. And managed to get them all through their BAs, saw one get an MS, and another do all but complete a graduate degree. To have three sons go off to war at the same time, and all three come back intact. To put up with three sons and a daughter. And to do all of this while painting the house, fixing the car, and strangling three wildcats and two rattlesnakes.

I don't have memories of Father's Day. I do have some memories of a big man, and more of a very capable woman. Moreover, I have their genes and I have, I hope, done them proud.