The soldier
A father who wipes away twenty years with a single hug.

One thing I'll never forget about my father — a hard-as-nails tough-love man who fought in two world wars and a war in Africa during the twenties — was the single tear running down his cheek the day he dropped me off at Fort Dix on my way to Vietnam, and the one hug that made up for twenty-two years of no hugging. Only he could understand what the coming year had in store for me. He couldn't even share his sorrow with my mother. Because of her weak heart, we told her I was going to a missile base in Guam. It seemed as if all the years of absence from each other's lives came together at that moment in New Jersey. We finally shared a bond no one else in my family could ever understand, father to son, man to man, soldier to soldier. — Joseph E. Colussi, Spring Grove, Pa., retired telephone tech, son of Peter C. Colussi, mosaic artist (1900-1975)

The touch
It was a routine gesture during an ordinary car ride, but she still remembers it.

As a young child, I sometimes stuttered. Once, when I was six and our family was traveling in the car, I was trying to tell my parents something and couldn’t get the words out. Stuttering confused me, which caused me to stutter even more. Although this didn’t happen very often, it was painful for my parents to witness. That day, while my dad was driving, he calmly reached into the backseat and pulled me closer to him. Then he put his arm around my shoulders and patted my right arm. I remember feeling a sense of immediate calm that allowed me to get the words out. — Kerry A. Bostwick, Mount Vernon, IA, associate professor, daughter of Robert R. Bostwick, superintendent of schools (1927)

The same room
Father Theodore Hesburgh, longtime president of the University of Notre Dame, said it best: “The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

I was visiting my parents a few years after my mother's health started failing, when my dad had completely taken over her care and the house. I was up early and heard them talking. I didn't want to disturb the moment, and I tried not to listen, but I overheard my mother tell Dad that she was sorry she was such a poor companion these days. She wanted to be traveling and doing things together, as they had often discussed.

There was silence, and then Dad said, in a choked voice, “Don't you know I just want to be in the same room with you?” I was struck by the simplicity and love in that remark, as my mother was a complex and brilliant woman given to philosophy. I loved my parents for the example of their relationship.

My mother died several years ago. Dad is still alive, but he is suffering from some dementia. He lives with me now, and I have come to understand the simplicity and importance of being in the same room with him. — Katherine M. Newbold, Peru, Ill., FBI (retired), daughter of John M. Newbold, FBI, state police (1920)

The lock
There is nothing like something that's just between you and your dad.

My father was a talented man who liked to build things in his fully equipped workshop in our basement. My little brother liked to follow him downstairs to watch and “help” as Dad made such things as chandeliers from old wagon wheels, a rotisserie for our fireplace, and an unusual light fixture out of the copper bulbs that float in the tank of a toilet.

When Jim was seven, he began going to Dad's workshop on his own, where he would remove Dad’s tools from their rightful place, use them, and not replace them. After telling him many times about the importance of putting things back, Dad decided to build a small tool chest with a lock, where he would keep his best tools so my brother couldn’t get at them.

As Dad worked on the tool chest, my brother watched him and helped enthusiastically. As Dad was installing the lock, Jim asked, “What's that?” Dad said it was a lock, and that in order to get tools from the chest, you had to open it with a key. Jim got a strange look on his face. He looked up at his father and asked, “Who will have the key, Dad?”

Dad paused a moment, reflected on the look on his son's face, and said, “There will be just two keys, Jim. One for you and one for me.” — Merabeth Lurie, Hubbard, Ohio, retired teacher, daughter of Jerold S. Meyer, retail executive (1903-1997)

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