You told me I didn't need a British guy to make me happy.
I think I was maybe 14 or 15 years old when you jokingly said you could see me marrying a British man (or someone interested in British culture). You just wanted to make me smile and it worked.
Then that day we cleaned the house while listening to the Beatles.
I enjoy your idioms or sayings to get your point across, like "Living the life of Riley," which apparently means living the easy life. I still use some of them.
With my recent obsession with the 1920s and the Mafia, you raise some questions every now and then, like why I want to write a historical fiction about "a bunch of thugs in suits." Yet you still support me and my dream of publishing my first book. On Valentine's Day last year, you recorded a documentary about Al Capone and the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre just because you thought of me. You said it would be ready for me to watch the next time I came to visit.
On Tuesdays (the craziest day of my week), I know you’re cheering me on from afar. You and Mom are constantly praying for me and my coworkers, which I really appreciate.
Thank you for putting gas in the tank of my car and reminding me about my mileage/maintenance checkups. For your sage advice about fishing rods and the lakes you've fished, including Stockton Lake, Pomme de Terre, Montrose and a gamut of others.
Thanks for remembering I don't like onions in my burgers or lettuce in my tacos. For knowing I prefer bright-colored sprinkles on my donuts.
Also, thanks for introducing me to "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle" in elementary school. You'll be proud to know I still binge-watch my DVD set at home sometimes.
Wishing you a blessed and wonderful Father's Day, Dad.