Thinking of Dad

Thinking About Dad
This year, Father’s Day filled me with thoughts of my dad, Fred

McLeod. He’s 91 now. (In fact, this photo was taken on his 91st
birthday: Dec. 9, 2009). He lives in Boston. I live in California.
But his humor spans the miles between us and keeps me smiling.
By Sunny Lockwood
Copyright 2010 by Merikay McLeod
All Rights Reserved
First electronic publication, June 2010
My dad’s a character. As a kid, I had no idea of how special that was.
Unlike TV dads of the time, he did not wear a suit and tie and he
never dispensed advice, discussed issues or laid down the law.
I will say he was as good looking as a leading man and as trim and
hard-muscled as any genuine cowboy. But he was more like George Burns
than Pa Cartwright.
Dad has always seemed happiest when he’s entertaining others by

telling funny stories. His natural sense of comic timing can keep most
people chuckling.
When we were kids, my brother, sister and I thought his stories were
corny and his jokes goofy.
But everyone seemed to like my dad. Most of my friends wished my

parents were their parents. And some of my high school friends, after they
grew up, actually became friends of my parents.
Dad would rather go for a walk or rake the leaves than talk
philosophy. And yet he is philosophical.
When I asked him if he’d rather be loved or respected, he said, “They

can’t be separated.”
He told me once he thinks it’s more important to get along than to

argue a point to prove you’re right.
Lest you think him weak, let me tell you that he practiced Judo long
before most people knew what it was. For years, he was a jockey, riding
thoroughbreds in regional races. He also swam with Johnny Weissmuller
when the Olympian and star of Tarzan movies came to town.
Today my dad is 91. He now lives with my sister and her husband.
But Dad still enjoys reminiscing with us kids about what a good time we’ve
all had together.
As I consider his life, I am amazed at this good-natured man who
raised me. Born premature on the windswept plains of Alberta, Canada, his
mother put him in a shoe box and sat it in the oven, to keep him warm until
he grew large enough to hold his own body heat.
His father died before dad was four-years old, leaving a widow with
no marketable skills and five small children.
She brought the family to Michigan where they were bitterly poor. My
dad’s childhood was filled with hunger and constant moving from place to
place.
Once dad turned six, his mother sent him to nearby farms in the
summer where he worked for his board and room. He told me that one onion
farmer he worked for all summer long when he was about eight never
allowed him to sleep in the house. He had a little shed where he slept.
When he was older, and lived in town, he found any kind of work he
could to put food in his mouth. Most of the city kids he played with ended
up in prison as adults. I once asked him what saved him from a life of
alcohol, drugs or crime. He said, “I saw where that stuff got them, and I
wasn’t the least bit interested.”
As a child and teenager, I never heard a vulgar word escape my dad’s

lips. “Hells bells” and “damn” were the strongest words he ever uttered.
If he was really angry with us kids, he’d call us “banshees” and send
us to mom for disciplining.
I remember dad taking me to the library to get my first library card

and taking me to the bank to open my first savings account.
We lived on the lake, so all my summer memories are of him

swimming with us kids. Or fishing. In the winter, he shoveled off the ice so
we’d have a rink to skate on.
He was married to my mother for nearly 50 years and cared for her
during the years she suffered from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.
More people attended her funeral than the funeral home could hold,
and they overflowed into the entry way and onto the sidewalk.
My father greeted almost every one.
He had a special story for several of my parents’ closest friends. This

is what he said: “When my wife and I were first married we agreed that I
would make all the really important decisions and she would make all the
other decisions. And you know, in the 50 years we’ve been married, there
has never once been a really important decision to be made.”
So what can I say about this character who is my father? Only this:
“Thanks, dad, for the happy childhood and a happy life you’ve given me.”
###

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Thinking About Dad

This year, Father’s Day filled me with thoughts of my dad, Fred

Dad has always seemed happiest when he’s entertaining others by

But everyone seemed to like my dad. Most of my friends wished my

When I asked him if he’d rather be loved or respected, he said, “They

He told me once he thinks it’s more important to get along than to

As a child and teenager, I never heard a vulgar word escape my dad’s

I remember dad taking me to the library to get my first library card

We lived on the lake, so all my summer memories are of him

He had a special story for several of my parents’ closest friends. This

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