His Laugh

I remember his laugh.

In fact, I think that’s probably the very first thing I remember about my dad. It was loud, genuine, and completely uninhibited. I was 2 or 3 years old, living in our small two-bedroom house in Tulsa. I can’t recall anything before that moment. I remember being startled by his laughter, then swept up in it like a giant swing. It was full, rich, and wonderfully contagious. That memory still makes me smile.

Six years later, I was standing in the foyer of an old two-story house. I looked down at the narrow wood floors slats that creaked when you walked across them. Above me hung a gas chandelier that had been converted to electricity. “Hey, kids!” a kind young woman called to my sister and me from a reception desk just beyond the foyer. She introduced herself and quickly ushered us through the French doors into my dad’s office.

Behind his large wooden desk stood a tall drafting table, covered in blueprints and drawings. My dad was hunched over the brightly lit surface, frantically tapping numbers into his calculator and making pencil marks with a ruler. He heard us come in, looked up and greeted us with his gregarious laugh. It made me giggle. He gave us a tour and even set us up with our own desks, paper, and pencils so we could begin designing the world.

More than anything, I remember the smell. Yes, it smelled like an old house, worn by weather and time, but it also carried the scent of work, of purpose, of business being built. I can still remember the smell of graphite pencils, buzzing fluorescent lights, dust, and the faint electric aroma of an eraser. Downstairs, I could hear my dad talking with a client… and of course, laughing.

Decades passed, and I became a dad myself. One Father’s Day, we piled up the kids and headed over to see him. He refused to let us take him out to eat. Instead, he had prepared a barbecue feast. My stepmom explained that he had spent the last two hours getting everything ready. He moved between the kitchen and the grill like Dick Van Dyke dancing as he worked. I can still remember those wonderful summer flavors, vegetables and proteins of every kind. He never did anything halfway, especially when it came to feeding people he loved.

“Hot stuff coming through!” he would shout as he carried out another platter of beautifully cooked food.

Then he would laugh.

Many years later, as I stood over my dad’s graveside with friends and family surrounding me, I reflected on the lessons and memories he had left behind. Grief was there, of course, but I couldn’t help but smile. In my mind, I could still hear his laugh. I could even imagine him making some joke about how people were just dying to get into this place. When I shared that thought out loud, everyone joined me in laughter. Tear-stained grief was no match for my dad’s encouraging laugh.

Thanks, Dad.

Aren’t memories wonderful?

They are warm companions that let us travel through time. They remind us that our story is made of wonderful moments of sights, sounds, and smells. They are colored by emotion and adorned with meaning. They connect us to the people we love. And they travel with us into the future, where they invite us to make more.

Go make some good memories.

Happy Father’s Day!