My dad drove a semi-trailer truck.  Over the years he drove short-haul, long-haul and around the piers of Seattle. He did not own a tie, a suit or a sport coat.  For my wedding he rented a tux at the Tux Shop with the rest of the groomsmen. While every one of his shirts had a collar and a chest pocket for his cigarettes, they were folded neatly in his two dresser drawers. In the summer his shirts had short sleeves, in the winter he wore flannel. He had a stack of white undershirts he wore everyday as well. My mom used something in a small bottle called bluing to keep the white load white. (Does anyone know what that was or where I can find it?)

Isn’t it great we get to decide the memories we choose to recall and dwell on? I could list the many hurts and frustrations my dad caused over the years.  Instead, I am choosing to remember my dad for his gentle presence.  Many mornings we sat quietly at the kitchen table while I ate my cereal and he read the paper. He laughed easily, like to play cards, watch 60 Minutes and read.  He cooked the Sunday roast.

Today I am thankful for my past: my hardworking parents,  my comfortable childhood home and that my dad always cooked the Thanksgiving turkey.