Don

                                               Donald D Gunning

          I got up this morning and suddenly realized that it's father's day, and I can't let it go by without saying something about my father, Don. I called my parents by their first names, Jim and Don, because that's what they called each other. I started imitating them and they just never corrected me. It certainly wasn't because of any lack of respect.   

          There are a lot of things that I could say about my father. He was a great story teller for one. It was he who entertained me with stories when I was little, not my mother - her stories came later. He was kind, and gentle, and patient. I never knew him to lose his temper, and he had plenty of opportunity, especially living with a Paul - my mother. He's always been my role model in that sense, but I've come up short. I guess I'm too much of a Paul myself. 

          My dad was practical, thrifty, and sensible. I don't know how else to say it that would emphasize it more, but watching him over the years, dealing with one situation after another, he was impressive. He and my mother Jim, were both thrifty and practical. They always planned for the future; they never bought anything they couldn't afford, and they discussed the decisions they made, but it was my father who kept his head in a crisis. He was the one who could end a discussion that was at a hopeless impasse with, "Well. It's getting late. We'd better get to bed." 

          Another thing that I admired about my father was that he always had his priorities straight. He always came home in the evenings, helped prepare our supper, and then sat around with us watching Gunsmoke, Rawhide, or whatever else was on TV. He was always ready to play catch with me. When I was in Little League Baseball, he went out and coached. When I joined the Boy Scouts, he went with me on my camping trips.  

          Probably the thing that I miss most about my father, though, was that he was my friend. I felt like I could tell him anything. It was different with my mother. She was  opinionated and very protective of me. She analyzed everything I said and worried that I might be influenced negatively by my friends, or that I was making decisions that might lead me into trouble. I had to be careful in what I said to my mother. On the other hand, my dad may have had the same worries, but he didn't let on. He listened. He encouraged me if he approved of what I thought. He also gave his opinion, but only as an opinion, not as an ultimatum, or as a warning that if I didn't do as he said I was going to "ruin my life," a common theme of my mother's.  

          My father only had one rule in our discussions. It made sense, but as I remember, it came as a surprise to me. One day I was telling my dad about something - I forgot what it was. Probably I was going out with a girl my mother didn't approve of. Anyway, he stopped me, and said, "Robin, now don't tell me anything you don't want your mother to know, because she and I have no secrets from each other." 

          When my father died, my mother was distraught. She cried; she screamed; she asked God why He had taken him away from her; she blamed herself for not insisting that he go into the hospital the day before when his chest pains began. But the two things she said that impressed me most were: "He was my friend. He was always on my side." 

           I felt the same way.