7/4/2026
Dad was foremost a family man; traditions, projects, and showing up mattered more to him than anything else. My favorite memory of Dad is from when I was five and he worked as a milkman at Willow Farms. Back then most homes would have insulated metal boxes by their front door and early in the morning the milkman would deliver each home’s order of milk and other dairy items like cottage cheese and sour cream. The milkman would also collect any empty glass containers for reuse. In my eyes Dad had the best job in the world because he’d leave for work at four in the morning but be home by noon when I got out of kindergarten. In the afternoon we’d go fishing, play ball in the yard, or go to the park and just walk around. Dad used to walk so fast I had to run to keep up, which is probably why I still run marathons now. I learned a lot from Dad about being a father, how to be present, how to be engaged, and the importance of creating memories. As a young father, I continued Dad’s tradition by going to work at five each morning so I could be home when my kids were off school. Whether coaching soccer or getting a couple runs in at the ski hill before dark we always found something to do together and I credit my dad for instilling that in me.
On Saturday’s Dad would let me come with him to deliver milk. Riding in the milk truck with the sliding door always open was the kind of exciting adventure reserved for John Wayne movies. I got to carry a wire basket to collect the empty milk bottles while Dad carried the basket filled dairy being delivered. At each stop I’d hop in the back of the truck and dad would shout the items I needed to load into his basket. On the way to and from each house and while riding in the open-door truck we would talk; politics, sports, or a host of other things a five-year-old knows nothing about. The best part was each Saturday I got to have a whole quart carton of chocolate milk, if I promised not to tell my sisters or Mom. We always stopped at either a bakery for long johns or a truck stop for pancakes because Dad needed his sweets as much as he needed his coffee.
As a teenager Dad had a rule that became a tradition; I had to help him every Saturday with whatever project he had going and in return I was promised Sunday’s off to hang out with my buddies, after church and Sunday lunch of course. We’d work until five because that’s when The Muppet’s TV show came on. Our deal was that he would watch The Muppet’s with me if I would watch Lawrence Welk with him, which came on right after. He wouldn’t admit that he liked the grumpy old men characters in The Muppet’s any more than I would admit to enjoying hearing Larry say, “Thank you Bobbie and Sissy,” with his heavy German accent and Geritol laced slur, whenever Bobbie and Sissy finished singing a duet. That became our coded replacement for swearing whenever anything that happened, whether good or bad, “well thank you Bobbie and Sissy.”
Dad was content as milkman in Chicago, but as they say, behind every good man is a woman pushing him toward personal greatness. Mom insisted Dad use his GI Bill to attend college where he excelled; he never got a grade below an A and graduated Cum Laude. He was very proud to be the first person in his family to ever attend college as he was when each of his kids got their college degrees. Dad was proud to have been a high school teacher in Chapel Hill, North Carolina the year US schools were desegregated. He understood and appreciated he was living through a moment in history. Service was important to Dad, not only as a teacher, but also managing the project to bring clean water to Eagle Butte on the Indian reservation, running the Elderly Nutrition program for Western South Dakota, and preparing people with Down’s Syndrome to live independent lives at the Black Hills Workshop.
As a lifelong die-hard Chicago sports fan Dad and I always had something to both talk and commiserate about. Since Leo became Pope, who is also a Chicago sports fan, Dad and I would joke about how we now have a Pope who understands suffering. Dad liked to tell stories of going to Wriggle Field as a kid to watch the Cubs play and how even the Nuns at his school would listen to afternoon games on the radio during class. He liked to reminisce about sitting in the stands at Soldier Field in late December with his thermos of coffee to keep warm as he watched the Bears play. His best sports stories though, were reserved for attending Blackhawk hockey games where the only seats he and his buddies could get were so high up the championship banners hung below them.
One of Dad’s fondest stories was about how he and his friends rode the L to Chicago’s Southside one night when he was still in High School. They tried sneaking into a jazz club’s side door; the performer was a trumpet player and dad loved playing his trumpet. The boys were caught by a security guard and were in the process of being unceremoniously booted from the bar when the jazz performer saw them. He told the bouncer to let the boys in because he never turns fans away. And that is how dad met Louie Armstrong.
Dad instilled in me a “build before you buy” mentality. We differed very much on how to do a project though. He always wanted to be done the minute after starting while I liked to take my time and enjoy the journey. Both approaches have value, but we were at times like kerosene on a fire. One great trait Dad had was that while he could be quick to get annoyed, he got over it right away and no matter how mad I would make him, after a chewing out we were always back to normal.
My favorite Dad project was when I was in second grade, and he bought this 1950’s light blue stepside Ford pickup and decided he’d fix it up. The first thing he did was get some white paint and dedicate the pickup “Little Lane” after Mom by painting that on the hood. Next, he decided to build a topper, which turned out uber nice. His oversight, however, was that he insulated the inside of the topper with fiberglass that he didn’t cover. On the inaugural drive up Spearfish Canyon to Iron Lake, Kathy, Shelly and I were so excited to ride in the back with the brand new topper. By the time we got to the lake though, we were in complete misery as fiberglass in those days gave your skin micro-cuts that itched like crazy. Kids today have no idea how lucky they are that Owens-Corning took the “itch” out of fiberglass because it’s a form of torture that causes nightmares.
Dad was a very good man and is an impossible act to follow. The best part of that is that he never expected his kids to be anything more than happy and he did an outstanding job setting each of us for a happy life. What better legacy could any man hope to leave his family. . .
Note: The Priest who is officiating my Dad’s funeral asked each of his kids to share a few of their fondest memories of Dad. This was my contribution.
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