This is why I try to see or talk to mine every chance I get. Actually being able to spend time with both of my parents was a large part of retiring 7 years earlier than originally planned. There are some things that are FAR more important than money and I will NEVER regret spending more time with both of my parents.

Push ups, maybe?

Hey, I just did a push up about 10 years ago!

Some of my earliest memories are of my older brother and I following my dad through the deer woods, both us to young to carry a gun. Squirrel hunting with our black and tan.. Fishing the river in the spring for smallmouth, Kentucky bass and sand bass. Running trotlines, growing big gardens, cutting firewood,Joining in on hog and chicken killings and shooting guns. My Dad raised 4 boys and he hardly ever excluded us in any outdoor activity.

I just plain can’t remember, this would have been 50 years ago.

Amen To that!!!

In December 2007, my dad was having some health issues, when we gathered on Christmas Day, those concerns heightened and I approached him, “Dad why don’t we head to urgent care”, he said “not happening, this is my last Christmas and I’m spending right here”. The next morning, he called and said ok, you can take me in. He never returned home and 12 days later he passed away from lung cancer (non-smoker). We’ll never forget someone that gave us so much to remember and our 12 days of Christmas were never more meaningful. He’s been missed every day since.

It's been awhile since my father passed. He was a stroke victim and landed in the nursing home after Mom couldn't pick him up off the floor anymore. I wrote this up shortly after his passing and had it read at the funeral. Apologies for the length here, couldn't help but share it.

Dad

Last November we were given the news Dad would pass away at any time. Three times I believe it was. I called my buddy Vic and told him deer camp wouldn’t happen. No cell phone service in the river bottoms and if I did get the message somehow, it would be tough to break camp and get up to La Crosse in a timely manner.
Instead I planned on hunting opening morning and return home before dark. Figured if Susan got the phone call from Mom we could still get up there Saturday evening.
Good plan ‘til the weather forecast called for snow beginning Friday afternoon into Saturday morning. I didn’t want to trailer the boat down there early Saturday morning in fresh snow so decided to go to Plan B.
Friday morning I packed the spike tent, gear and small canoe into the back of the truck. I remember it was a beautiful, sunny morning about 40 degrees. But the radar showed a large blue mass stretching from northeast Iowa to the far side of Nebraska, heading this way. The forecast of 2-4” was a bit shy I thought.
The plan was to take pictures on the digital camera of the hunt and that way I could bring Dad along by hooking the camera up to his TV in his room the next time I came up to visit. So I took lots and lots of pictures.
Loaded the canoe at the landing and paddled upstream hugging the bank. Rounded the upstream end of an island and floated down to where I’ve set camp since the mid-80s. I remember the sky was now becoming grey and overcast.
Offloaded the gear onto the green marsh grass, pulled the canoe up onto the bank, and set up the tent and front canopy, while occasionally taking pictures. Got camp set up, then hiked back into the bottoms to build the ground blind I’d be sitting in the next morning.
Knowing the snow would make it difficult to find my way back to the blind the next morning, I stuck reflective tacks into tree trunks to guide my way. Took pictures the whole time so Dad could see the the swamp cloaked in green marsh grass versus the predicted snow the next day.
Built the blind on top of a large root mass on a back slough where I could see two runs came out from underneath it. Probably muskrats, maybe mink. The runs were still cloudy from their comings and goings.
Took pictures of everything, including some very old trees that had large cavities exposed where critters had dug into ‘em and made ‘em their homes. One showed evidence of a lightning strike years ago, the black charred insides gave testimony to that. Thought Dad would enjoy those different pics.
Got back to camp, pulled the canoe alongside the tent and rolled it upside down in preparation for the coming snow.
Sometime late afternoon it started to snow. I set the lawn chair underneath the canopy and started taking pictures. Just a few flakes at first, and then more. White on green, thought it was such a contrast.
The canoe was now covered enough you couldn’t see the bottom and the dead horizontal trees lying in the bottoms had white blankets on top of them. The green of the marsh grass was rapidly disappearing with just the yellow stalks rising up above the snow. Darkness descended and I retreated into the tent.
Didn’t have room for the woodstove and pipes in the canoe but I did pack Mr. Heater. Turned him on, fired up the Coleman lantern, turned the radio on to the local station down low, made a cup of coffee and thought about Dad.
Thought about who I might have been had the folks not moved to Brice Prairie when I was just a little kid. Who I would have been had Dad not taken us boys out hunting and fishing. What if I had not become a Cub Scout with Mom my den mother and later Dad my Boy Scoutmaster. What if Dad hadn’t said sure, go ahead and use the boat that was pulled up on the bank below the house, that allowed me to explore the river bottoms of upper Lake Onalaska.
I pulled the tent flap back and took a pic of the now covered grass in front of the tent. It was really snowing! Cracked a can of Dinty Moore and heated it on the single burner stove.
Dad taught me how to hunt ducks, deer and squirrels. He loved duck hunting. I remember reloading the same 12 gauge shotgun shells until we blew the ends out of ‘em. Decoys lasted ‘til we sank ‘em by shooting low flying ducks. The man was passionate in his outdoor pursuits.
I didn’t need comic book heroes when I was a kid. Tom Widner was my Superman. He could read a book and figure out how to make or fix anything. There seemed to be nothing he couldn’t do. I, on the other hand, hadn’t inherited this mechanical ability gene and struggled at times to do something, as Dad put it . . . “half right.”
But this Superman sometimes did things that didn’t make much sense. Looking back at it all now, I remind myself he grew up in New Mexico, and Wisconsin was sure different for him.
For example, there was the heated insulated ice fishing shanty, that somehow during the winter melted its way through the ice . . . a couple of times! Or the portable deer shack we set up that was so tiny we would lift the roof up to let the excess heat out. There was the winter the boat was left in the water too long and we had to chop it out of the ice. Somehow the spud had nicked the hull and we had a leak to fix too.
Then there was the winter camp on Red Oak Ridge, where he led the Boy Scouts across the frozen lake to that far island in front of Schaefer’s. We set up pup tents with the fronts facing the large fire in hopes we could keep the fire going and thereby stay warm. The fire went out and I remember freezing all night. A stray dog that followed us across the ice crawled into our tent and layed down between Dad and me. Sometime in the middle of the night that dog let out a yip and ran out of the tent. I asked Dad what happened . . . he said the dog decided to warm his butt on Dad’s face and Dad sank his teeth into that dog’s hind end.
Back to deer camp. Next morning I cooked breakfast, loaded the 30-30, and walked out into the darkness of a white cloaked swamp. It was very quiet. No fresh tracks as I wended my way to the blind and reset the branches and marsh grass that had fallen under the weight of the snow. Shook snow off the boat cushion, set it on top the milk crate, and waited for daylight.
Sitting in a deer blind allows one’s mind to wander. Couple summers ago this fella came to the canoe livery where I threw canoes around for extra money and I discovered he was from Black River Falls. Got to talking about the Black River, Brice Prairie, Sam Hagerman and Boy Scouts. Come to find out we were about the same age, one thing led to another, and discovered we both attended the Boy Scout Jamboree on the Prairie that Dad had organized. This fella recalled the tower that Dad had us build out of river birch and binder twine. And he had vivid recollections of the bridge that Dad had us build using a telephone pole and a cable stretched taut above it, across the Black River which ran along the Prairie ‘til it was diverted out to the upper bottoms long after the folks left the Prairie.
I often wonder how many lives Dad changed by his enthusiastic volunteer lifestyle. How many of those kids on the Prairie would never have gone camping or learned outdoor skills. How the Brice Prairie fisherees might have been different for not Dad’s participation in the Conservation Association. Who could forget the oxtail soup!
A grey light now lit the swamp. Had maybe seven inches of fresh snow on the ground and slushy ice in the slough behind me. Three otter swam by in a row, parting this soft ice and played awhile in front of the beaver dam off to my right. The woods were quiet, no deer. I continued to take pictures and reminisce.
Trapping muskrats through the ice back in the 60s became a passion of mine after duck season ended. It often meant setting that jon boat on top the ice, loading gear into it, then pushing the boat on top the ice. In case the ice broke I’d jump in and bob about ‘til I hooked my way to thick ice and slide it back on top. Dad must’ve been confident enough to let this go on. His barber was also a trapline supply dealer and fur buyer and Dad would come home with new traps after I sold enough furs to buy more. Kudos to Mom for letting me freeze these muskrats in the home freezer ‘til Dad sold them. I didn’t know how to skin ‘em, so Mom said as long as I rolled them in newspaper and faced them to the back of the freezer so she wouldn’t have to look them in the face when she got some frozen food out it would be okay. Now there’s a Mom, eh?
Still no deer that morning, but happened to look down at the runs coming out of the root mass and saw a bubble trail in one of them. The muskrats had come out under the ice to look for breakfast.
By 11 or so I gave it up and hiked back to camp. I was hoping Dad hadn’t passed yet, I wanted to share this last deer camp with him. About forty yards out from the tent I came across fresh deer tracks. Six deer had walked on by the tent, while I was 300 yards back into the swamp. Dad would enjoy that.
Ate lunch, broke camp and loaded the canoe. The green square where the tent had been looked out of place surrounded by snow. Paddled back up the back slough, then floated down to the landing. Loaded the truck and was home later that afternoon. Called Mom and nothing had changed.
The next visit up, which was probably Monday or Tuesday, I hooked up the camera to Dad’s TV and together we walked through deer camp. I watched my father’s face carefully as we went from one pic to the next. Here was the man responsible for who I am today. I love my father very much.
Thanks Dad.

Guys I screwed up bad when I titled this thread and I was reminded real quick that not all remembered their dad. I should have included mom or anyone that was blatant stupidity on my part for which there is no excuse I apologize for wronging some of you…Jon

You didn't screw up.

Christmas mornings.
My father came up thru the depression with 9 siblings. They never had a Christmas gift other than going to church. When I was young we always had a gift or two and Dad as well. He was painstakingly slow and careful to open each gift, used his pocket knife on the tape so as to save the wrapping he said. (Mom never reused it) It took me a long time to realize he was quietly reliving a lot of lost thoughts and feelings all those past Christmas mornings. Thoughts I can only Imagine.

Dad died at 63 of blood cancer which he battled without complaint of any kind. He deserved better. He was a better man than I.

Osky

In the late 1970's we had a 3 day muzzeloader season in mid December. A snowstorm dumped waist deep snow. Dad and I decided to go hunting on the mountain near home. Drove my old Scout up the road as far as it would go and then he hunted to the left and I went to the right. I got to the top of the mountain but stayed on the same side as the vehicle. Dad went over the mountain top and way down the back side and I hear him shoot. About 3 hours later I was sleeping in the Scout when he came dragging a doe down the hill. He says to me "Didn't you hear me shoot?". "Yep", I said. "and any darn fool who shoots a doe on the backside of the mountain in this snow deserves to drag it out himself". He said "You are right."
Over the years we laughed about this many times. He was about 48 at the time and lived to be over 92, shot 3 bucks 2 months before he died. Here is the last elk he got at his cabin in Colorado at the age of 89 and his last snared coyote 3 weeks before he died.
My grandson (his great-grandson) shot a buck only 50 yards from Dad's tombstone this fall. He would have gotten a kick ot of that!!

None I care to remember on purpose

Just buried mine this past Monday. Enjoy them while you can

Prayers for your healing on this Christmas weekend.

My wife showed me a picture this morning of my dad and I that popped up on her I pad from Christmas day 10 years ago. We are just standing there, both with stupid grins on our faces. Brought a smile and tear to my eye at the same time. A moment in time I wish I could repeat now.

Thank you