Stephanie Croston

    It's been five years since my family lost my dad. As of this year, that will be five Father's Days without my father.
     Some days it feels like it's been longer than five years, while others it feels like just five days.
     The first Father's Day after Dad died, I forgot it was Father's Day. It didn't even cross my mind until I got to church and all the fathers in the congregation were recognized.
     I felt guilty. Could I have forgotten my dad so soon? Why didn't I remember that that Sunday was Father's Day?
     I've thought about that many times since that day. One theory is that my subconscious didn't want to remember that, on this day to celebrate fathers around the country, mine was no longer here.
     Another is that Father's Day isn't played up as much as other holidays like Mother's Day or Valentine's Day so of course I wouldn't remember.
     Neither made me feel any better.
     I know I haven't forgotten Dad. I can't tell you how many questions I would love to discuss with him, things I want to know about his growing up years, experiences we could compare.
     I had the opportunity to see my father in a variety of roles during his life. Not only was he Dad, he was also the song leader at church, director of our family quartet/quintet (Mom didn't sing with us as much), occasional preacher and full-time teacher at school.
     My brothers and I loved to sit by Dad during church because, get ready for this, he had a clipboard. I know. That's on beyond cool.
     The thing with the clipboard was it had paper on it. I know, earthshattering revelation. But we could draw or write on the paper and that kept one of us occupied during church. And for my parents, that was definitely a good thing.
     Of course, sitting by Dad meant we had to be good and we couldn't fidget, but we were supposed to be good in church anyway.
     When we delivered the Omaha World-Herald, on Sunday mornings Dad took papers to three or four towns in Kansas and then met us at church. Poor Mom was responsible for making sure all four of us kids were ready for church and in the car, then had to spend 30 minutes in said car with four kids who were ready to get out of the car. By then, though, some of us were old enough to get ourselves ready, so it wasn't that bad.
     But then after church, one of us got to ride home with Dad. That was fine in the Nova, but it was even better once we got the Pink Panther. No kidding. The Pink Panther was an addition to our family after the Nova was totalled in an accident.
     The Pink Panther was, indeed, pink. It was a race car body, but Dad and a friend had moved the transmission from the Nova to the new car, so it didn't have the same power as a race car. But it was cool to look at, and it was definitely a conversation starter. When we sold it, a high school kid at the end of the block bought it to use for racing.
     I also had Dad as a teacher-junior high English and high school speech, as a matter of fact. He told us on the first day of class in seventh grade that he hated seventh graders. That floored me. How could he hate seventh graders? After all, I was a seventh grader and he didn't hate me, did he?
     In eighth grade, he organized a Perquacky tournament for my class. For those who don't know, Perquacky is a game that features 10 lettered cubes that are rolled out of a cup. Players have to make as many words as they can with the letters that are showing. It's like Boggle, but without the requirement that letters must be touching.
     For those who are wondering, I finished second.
     In speech class, Dad taught one of the most useful lessons I learned. He encouraged us to be active listeners. That means showing the speaker you were listening to him or her by nodding, smiling and offering other nonverbal encouragement. Not only does that help the speaker, it also makes the listener focus on what is being said. That lesson has served me well in my roles as reporter and editor.
     His job as principal took him out of the classroom but not out of school. He loved being around the students. I think it kept him young.
     After his funeral, my Aunt Debbie's first-grade class gave Mom pictures they'd drawn of Dad. They showed Dad on the playground, in the lunchroom and in the hall. My favorite showed a classroom full of desks with a head peeking around the door. It was Dad looking in to say hello.
     I like to think he still looks in on all of us. I hope we've turned out like he wanted us to. I'm sure he checks up on his grandchildren, making sure their parents are raising them right.
     I haven't forgotten Dad. And this year I didn't forget Father's Day. If your father is still here, make sure you tell him how much he means to you.
     Happy Father's Day.