Dale

My father, Dale, has more stories associated with him than any other person I’ve ever met. Some of my favorite memories of Dad are of small-child-me curling up with him on the couch, or at the dinner table, and begging him to tell me stories of when he lived in Germany, or Alaska, or growing up in our small town.

His pet seal, Shithead, whom he rescued from death while living in Alaska is my all-time favorite Dad story. That, and how he wound up in Germany instead of being sent to Vietnam, and the time he found out his Amsterdam girlfriend was a hooker.

I remember learning to ride my old sparkly purple banana seat bike, and Dad rigged up a launchpad from some industrial truck parts so I could hover at the top of the hill until I was ready, and then launch myself down the slope, screaming the whole way with Dad’s laughter echoing off the barn.

Then there’s the early memory that taught me that life is to be cherished, because it can all change in an instant. When I was 9, almost 10, Dad shattered a few vertebrae in his neck in a diving accident, and was told he’d probably never move again below the neck. After a few choice words for the doctor who dared tell him that, and a lot of determination, Dad walked into our house a month later (on my tenth birthday!), stiff, sore, and a little worse for wear, but walking nonetheless.

Dad’s one of my all-time favorite people, at the very top of the A-list, and I look forward to seeing him a few times a year. One of my only regrets about moving to Seattle is that I’m no longer a two-hour drive from dropping in on him at his airplane hangar for a bear hug and coffee.