My father always maintained that Father’s Day is a hoax, a national sham, a “good one” put over on the American people by “Macy’s,” he’d say, or “Hallmark.”

He said these things because he was not the kind of man who enjoyed the glare of limelight.  He was, however, fiercely possessed of some sterner qualities of men – dated, timeworn traits such as compassion, selflessness, justice, commitment.

He became vintage at age 80.  He earned his medals, one by tiring one, in the raging trenches of parenthood.  He would sacrifice these honors, however illusionary, if he thought it would help his family survive.

As my mother told the story, he wasn’t particularly interested in becoming a father.  But it was Dad who was up at 2 a.m. nightly giving me formula.  And his pet names for me became synonymous with my stages of growth.  At six months, I was “Little Piddle.”  At two I was sometimes, the “Bad Terry,” and at three, the “Good Terry.”  In grade school, I was “Terry Berry” or “Terry Werry Ware.”  In high school, always barefoot, I became “Shoeless Joe Jackson.”  In college, I was simply “Too Fresh.”

The lessons of life and living he imparted to me and my brother Michael are as engrained in us as the rings on an aged oak.  They were the benchmarks of our development.

He taught us such pragmatic fundamentals as how to recognize a tomato worm.  The right way to hit a baseball. How to catch lightning bugs, and plant a vegetable garden.  The difference between a wrench and a screwdriver.  What not to do in an electrical storm.

On summer vacations in New Hampshire, he would awaken Michael and me at 5 a.m. (our Mom got to sleep in now and then).  Bleary-eyed, we’d stumble through the fog and the damp to the waterfront.  There, we’d climb into a rowboat and amidst the eerie sounds of the loons, we’d row quietly to “the spot.”  Then we’d fish for bass, perch and sunfish until noon.  If there were catch, it was Dad who did the cleaning.  And he always put the worm on the hook for me.

His first love, next to golf – and, of course, my mother, whom he adored – was baseball.  Until one year, he stopped watching altogether.  That was the year the New York Giants moved to San Francisco.

My friends adored him, this unassuming man with his dignified, sometimes disarming, sense of humor.  Every evening, he would sit in “his chair,” smoking his pipe, reading the newspaper, and he would say, as if by divine revelation, “Terry, here is your alleged father.”  My high school friends still talk with great fondness about my “alleged father.”

He was a pretty terrible cook.  Unless you could survive on fried eggs (the best we ever tasted) or the richest fudge ever concocted, you would do well to subsist elsewhere.  But those were his culinary masterpieces…and were so because he made them.

An avid reader, my father shared bits of wisdom with us daily.  But his most magnificent lessons were those he imparted by his own example.

By his example, he gave us the gift of kindness.  My father was unfailingly kind, to all he knew and met. 

He taught us honesty.  He was unflinchingly honest.  He simply could not lie or be deceitful.  It just wasn’t in him.

He taught us the value of hard work.  In all the years he worked, both prosperous and lean, he always provided, and he never had much to say about money.  It wasn’t something to concern us.  (Except, occasionally, this sage advice:  “Terry,” he’d say, “money can’t buy happiness.  But it sure can prevent a lot of misery!”)

He taught us to be generous.  My father gave from the heart.  He turned down no one.  He shared all he had, answered every call, gave what was needed.  He wanted nothing in return. 

He taught us love, devotion and commitment.  He was utterly devoted to my mother, whom he adored.  And there was never a question that he loved all of us.  His love for us was something you could trust, something you could count on.

And he loved God.  He read the Bible often, upstairs, in his room, quietly and by himself.  I saw him do this frequently through the partly-closed door, but never let on that I had seen. I didn’t want to disrupt him.

On my wedding day, Dad and I shared three things:  a long walk down a short aisle, a glass of champagne, and the tears which flow from breaking away.

In his early 80’s, he still loved sports, played golf twice a week, armchair spectator, reminiscing occasionally about his days as a college runner, member of the ball team, challenging the ski slopes on homemade wooden skis, his two holes-in-one.  At 81, he didn’t walk as far, or as fast, as he once did.

No Macho-Man, Renaissance Guy, Superhero, Nouveau-Dad was this guy.  He was just the plain, old-fashioned, salt-of-the-earth variety.  The kind of man who’d give you the right directions, or the correct time of day, and you’d say, “He seems like such a nice man.”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  You did your job well.