My dad died in early August of 1972. I was 17 and he was 64.
I was quite severely broken for a few days. We were just emerging from that place where teenagers fight with their parents just because it's the right thing to do at the time.

On some level though, those of us with good childhood memories always carry around that little kid who knows Daddy and Mommy as wise protectors who will always be there when we need them, and who love us no matter what. It's hard to find the 'no matter what' kind of love once we grow up, When we're adults, people mostly don't see that little kid inside that wants to love and be loved unconditionally and is so easily hurt.

My dad was there, and a few hours later, wasn't, and I put my inner child into indefinite time-out. I never got to know my dad that well because I didn't ask questions. I would have as I grew older, but Dad wasn't there then. He drove a city bus. He was the youngest of 6 kids, and was the only boy. I used to sit on his lap on Sunday mornings when I was 3 or 4 and 'read' the comics. He taught me the proper way to eat a tomato: tomato in one had, salt cellar in the other, tomato in the middle, your face (and down your arms and shirt). He also taught me how to use tools and bought me a jackknife when he thought I was old enough. He also bought me a pair of real pearl earrings for a school dance once.

I can't remember one of the fights.

Thanks to everyone who has shared a story about their fathers. We haven't had a thread like this for a while.