Five years after my father’s death, Father’s Day and the first day of summer share the same date: June 21. I can’t think of a more fitting tribute. Summertime is when I find Dad in the sparkle of a lake, the wake behind a boat, my husband showing up for a friend, and fresh lobster dipped in melted butter with a sprinkle of salt.
During the 61 years I had with Dad, I only remember hearing him say “I love you” once ― and that was after I finally told him, “Dad, you never tell me you love me.” Born in 1929, he belonged to a generation of fathers who were all about actions rather than words.
The words may have been scarce, but the love wasn’t.
Dad, a lifelong sports enthusiast, coached us — baseball and football for my brothers, softball and basketball for me. Even when he needed a walker to climb the bleachers, he never missed one of my daughter’s home games. (The team presented him with a signed volleyball dedicated to their “Super Fan.” )
But many of my favorite memories of Dad were made on the water. His prized sailfish hung above the TV in our family room, a testament to his love of fishing and boating. He bought a boat and take us water-skiing on weekends. He was in his element at the helm, he kept a steady hand on the wheel as we skimmed across Lake Clarke Shores, learning to balance on skis.
When we fell, he didn’t scold or rush us. He simply circled back with the engine idling and waited until we were ready to try again. Quiet lessons in disguise.
Only later did I realize how much his steady presence anchored me.
The highlight of each year was Florida’s lobster season, when we headed to a friend’s house in the Keys for the annual hunt. Dad and my brothers strapped on scuba tanks and disappeared beneath the surface while I snorkeled.
When antennae and faint red eyes betrayed a lobster’s hiding place, I slid my gloved hand into dark crevices. Every reach required courage. I blame Jaws. Released the year I turned 15, the movie fueled visions of toothy predators circling nearby.
But lobster — which I sometimes joke would be my choice for a last meal — made facing my fears worthwhile. I certainly wasn’t going to get this meal at a restaurant. Too expensive. Dad’s father was a minister sometimes paid in bushels of corn or potatoes. Though dad worked his way through college to become an optometrist, he carried the frugality of the Great Depression with him for the rest of his life.
But he was also resourceful. He bartered with a patient from the Bahamas — eye exams and glasses for lobster. Spectacles for seafood. A truly visionary exchange.
Between that arrangement and our yearly Keys expedition, we feasted on lobster twice a year, and it always felt like a celebration. We cracked, picked, and scraped out every shred. Heaven meant having a whole lobster to ourselves.
Two men and the sea
While I was hunting for lobsters in the 1970s and 1980s, Otis — the man I would marry in 2020 — was doing the same 1,400 miles north in Massachusetts. We had a thing for lobsters, it seems, long before we had a thing for each other.
I hadn’t realized how deeply I connected water and the traditions built around it to my Dad until I connected with Otis.
As a boy, Otis spent summers heading out in a small wooden dory with his best friend, Kurt. After college, he and Kurt took white-collar jobs, but Kurt eventually became a commercial lobsterman. When a hip replacement sidelined Kurt in 2024, Otis, newly retired, was happy to help. With the summer off from teaching, I tagged along, eager to meet Kurt and his family, cross New England off my bucket list and, of course, eat “lobstah.”
What I didn’t expect was how much that summer would bring me back to Dad.
Fishing has never been my thing, but I tried quahogging ― raking New England beaches for clams. As I dug into the sand, I knew Dad would have grinned to see me bringing home dinner the old-fashioned way.
Riding the rocky coastline that summer and the next, with sea spray in my face and salt in my hair, I found myself thinking about Dad, whose calling reached far beyond his roles as husband, father and optometrist. He not only found joy in sports, fishing and boating but also in serving as a deacon and Sunday school teacher — and in traveling to underserved countries to establish free eye clinics. From the age of 22 until he was 81, he went on more than 80 mission trips to 23 countries.
By quietly and faithfully showing up — in his office, on those trips and at the helm of our boat — he taught us to be present for others and to make room in our lives for what we love.
Awash in memories
With each stretch of shoreline, memories of Dad surfaced in waves — small glimpses of the man who was my safe harbor.
He wasn’t one for confrontation or lectures as Mom was. Yet,once, I overheard him lecturing the empty air, his words clearly meant for me.
He wasn’t much of a talker either. If he answered the phone, he’d say, “Let me put your mother on,” before I could finish saying, “Wait, I want to talk to you, too.”
He loved to tell jokes. I don’t remember a single one, but I remember how hard he’d laugh, his face turning red as he tried to get the words out, rarely making it to the punch line. His laughter was so contagious we’d forget the joke and laugh with him.
He feels closest when I’m doing something he loved — drinking a root beer float, eating Rice Krispies treats or watching an Ohio State football game.
I also think of him whenever I hear whistling — especially the whistled opening theme of his favorite show, The Andy Griffith Show. Dad whistled when he was happy, which was often. His quiet soundtrack drifted through the house or across the water signaling all was well in his world.
His blue eyes — skipping two generations — now shine in my grandchildren, an inheritance he didn’t live to see. He would have loved that — and them.
As much as the water connects me to Dad, so do his stories. He, too, loved to read and write. He filled pages with memories of his boyhood, sports, dating, his Air Force years, fishing, his faith, my mom — even death. He wrote five mystery novels and self-published a book about his mission trips. Reading his words brings me closer to him.
Mom once told me whenever one of my stories ran in the newspaper, Dad would settle into his recliner by the front window and read it again and again. Secretly, I was thrilled. His quiet way of showing he was proud of me meant more than words ever could.
When he would call to tell me he’d gotten extra newspaper copies from neighbors, he always asked, “When’s your next article coming out?”
This — on my fifth Father’s Day without you and on this first day of summer — is my answer:
Today, Dad — and this one’s for you.
Janet Meckstroth Alessi is a retired high school teacher and frequent contributor to Accent. She can be reached at jlmalessi@aol.com.
This article originally appeared on Palm Beach Post: The summer tides bring waves of memories of Dad on Father’s Day
Reporting by Janet Meckstroth Alessi, Special to the Palm Beach Post / Palm Beach Post
USA TODAY Network via Reuters Connect
By Janet Meckstroth Alessi, Special to the Palm Beach Post | USA TODAY Network
