my Dad was my best buddy and my hero, in a world that's way too short of both. he was the bravest man i've ever known, not in the melodramatic superhero sense but in the much more complicated sense of facing up to the challenges of difficult circumstances and making of them a beautiful life.

he owned a small-town shoe store. he and my Mom raised five kids on a meager income, and they did it so well that we grew up certain that we were rich. instead of store-bought doodads, he gave us love. instead of expensive toys, he gave us his time. he paid attention: to his family, to his community, to the environment (back when that was called "conservation"), to our society. i learned my politics from him. i learned that without a sense of humor you miss the best of life. i learned to value education but to cherish learning more. if i had been his son, i'd say "he taught me how to be a man." in my heart i think of it that way anyway, but since i'm his daughter i say "he taught me how to be a human being." he gave me the great gift of exploring the world around me, and the greater gift of never taking myself too seriously.

my Dad was always proud of me. i was a "tomboy," which is what smart, strong, independent girls were called in those days, and he never criticized me for it, or disparaged my spirit, or tried to change me. when i think of him and me, i think of playing catch during long honey-colored summer evenings. i was mad for baseball, worshipping the then-milwaukee braves. he worked all day at the shoe store and came home bone-tired, but after supper he would go out in the yard and play hardball catch with me until the fireflies twinkled, and the street lights came on, and bats swooped. i was also (of course) a crazed green bay packers fan, and without a second thought he took me to a "father-son" dinner to hear one of the packers speak, grinned at my delight, and didn¹t give a damn that i was the only girl there.

if i close my eyes i can see us paddling a canoe (on which my Mom had painted the milwaukee braves logo) silently across a lake in the rising twilight. i can see him and his brother and me tramping across crackling autumn fields hunting bunnies (i pretended to aim and i fired, but i never shot one. he knew it, but never called me on it.). i can hear us spending hour upon hour practicing with a self-teaching record when i had a passion to learn spanish: como esta usted? i can see us walking, going for drives, camping, talking, watching the stars come out, spotting the first man-made satellite blinking across the night sky.

the day i left home for the first time, to start college at the university of wisconsin in madison, he and Mom drove me there, helped me unload my few clothes and things into the terrifying impersonal dormitory room, and unpack. then they kicked their first chick out of the nest, said goodbye, we love you, we're so proud of you (first in the family to go to college!), and drove off. i sat in that sterile generic room, trying so hard not to cry, not to howl for mercy, not to chase after their car and beg to go back to my safe familiar comfortable home. i sat. i tried hard. the phone rang. (the PHONE? who knows i'm here??) and rang. finally i picked it up and quavered a tiny "hello?" and it was my Dad. stopped at a gas station at the edge of town to call me and tell me he loved me, he knew i could do anything i set my heart on, he was so proud of me, he loved me.

on march 7, after a long cruel illness, he left me again. but when i listen closely, i can hear him calling me to tell me he loves me, he knows i can do anything i set my heart on, he¹s proud of me, he loves me.

i love you, Dad. i'll miss you forever, but you're with me forever.

in memoriam: James Edward Engels, "the Guv," my Dad.