What dads do deserve: 'Thanks,' 'I love you'

By JEFF JARDINE
jjardine@modbee.com

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Like just about every other holiday and faux holiday, Father's Day has been commercialized into a sale at the mall.

"Give dad a sports coat for Father's Day," an advertisement might state, though I can't remember the last time

I saw anyone playing field hockey while wearing a herringbone tweed blazer.

Or perhaps after-shave, power tools or neckties make the perfect gift along with, of course, the obligatory Father's Day greeting card.

That's OK. People have to make a living, as do our ad sales people, who generate the income needed to pay salaries -- namely mine -- here at The Bee.

But there is, or should be, more to it than that. Father's Day is a reminder to say the things that often go unsaid. Little things like "thank you" and bigger things like "I love you."

I can tell you that my father, Ron, has been a father, friend, fear factor, role model and everything else that mattered.

There were times during the 1960s when he maintained his full-time job along with two part-time jobs to feed, clothe and shelter us.

Likewise, and like my dad, I worked three jobs at once while in high school: at the feed store he managed, at a gas station and refereeing city league basketball games.

From late April through October, on his one day off each week, we usually stumbled out of bed at 3:30 a.m. to traipse down to one of the poison oak- and rattlesnake-infested forks of the Stanislaus or Tuolumne rivers to catch trout.

At 74, his days of hiking in and out

of steep canyons are pretty much finished. With age comes wisdom, I guess. I still try to fish the south fork of the Stanislaus once every couple of years. Not because the fishing's all that great anymore, but because it just seems like the right thing to do to maintain our tradition.

He coached my Little League team when no one else stepped up, rushing from work to the ballpark just in time to turn in the lineup card and settle in for the first pitch.

He taught me to drive, too, and the hills of Sonora offered a challenging test track. He always drove pickups, and the pickups always had a clutch. You know, that third pedal you see on vehicles in museums.

Automatic transmissions? Too easy. My brother and I learned to drive in the pickup. Kill the motor or smell the clutch burning and you heard about it.

One summer morning, while I had my learner's permit, we headed into town to drop my mom off for work. As I prepared to make a left turn toward the courthouse, traffic in the other direction was solid. I had to stop and wait on an incline. I was toast and I knew it. To make matters worse, the next car came up way too close behind me. When the traffic cleared, I took my foot off the brake and moved it to the gas pedal. It was too late. The pickup rolled back two or three feet and bumped the car behind me. The clutch smelled. The motor died. So, inside, did I.

My dad -- red-faced and with eyes afire -- jumped out of the truck to check for damage. There was none. Even so, he was less than pleased. It was an embarrassing moment, right smack dab in the middle of a town where everyone knew everybody else. He came around to the driver's side and took over the wheel. After leaving my mom off in front of the building where she worked, a block or so away, we headed toward the feed store at the south end of town. Except that we detoured, taking a road that went up a hill toward the hay barn. He stopped the pickup

on a steep slope, got out and said -- with a pronounced

edge -- "Move over."