I’ve not traditionally posted anything on Fathers’ Day, but I’m making an exception this year. Blame it on my age, but of late, I’ve been reflecting on my experiences with my Dad and the years immediately following his death when I was seven.

I think he’d like to know about the long list of guys who did their best to help fill the void. I’m certainly not going to try to name them all. Some were relatives. Many were his friends. Two were neighbors. They didn’t try to be my Dad; they just became my friend.

One helped me build a birdhouse; I think it weighed fifty pounds when we were finished adding ideas and amenities. A neighbor made me his companion when he split wood and gardened. The guy who ran the gas station and bait shop in town offered fishing advice and occasionally provided free tackle.

Some of those men remained a friend for years. They’re all gone now. Dad would have celebrated his ninety-eighth birthday this year. Today I miss them. Actually, I miss them a little every day. I’ve always said of my Dad that he’s with me and haunts me in ways that are positive beyond belief. I considered it a huge compliment when his friends would remark, “You’re just like your Dad.”

Was it providential that we had the same names? In later years, some of those men actually thought I was my Dad. If we’re in my hometown I can show you my name on the WW II honor roll.

I do occasionally wonder what he’d think about how complicated life’s become. But if I’m “just like” him, I think I know.

He’d miss the connections we had nearly seventy years ago. He’d miss the opportunities we had to be a caring friend to others, especially those much younger. He’d recognize the importance of friends but balance it with independence and resilience.

If you’d like to read a short story about how he taught me that, read “Thanks, Dad!” It’s the story of one of my best days with him.