"Dad and I" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
There are days when memory arrives like a gentle breeze—unexpected, tender, and deeply welcome. This morning, it was a pair of images that carried me back: the sun-dappled entrance to a garden, and an old black-and-white photo of a man reading to a child. Both evoke my father, who has been gone now for nearly fifty years, and yet, in so many ways, never left.
When I think of him, I see his hands—weathered and strong—shaping wood in his workshop, coaxing life from soil in the gardens he so lovingly tended. He was a man who found beauty in creation, in doing, in the quiet acts that spoke louder than words. There was no need for long speeches or emotional declarations.
The lessons came through the rhythm of his labor, the care he gave to the earth, and the attention he gave to me—especially in those moments when he read to me.
I don’t remember the exact stories, but I remember his voice. His presence. The sound of the pages turning. I remember how safe and loved I felt, curled beside him. Those early years gave me something unshakable.
As one writer once said: "There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his children, and gradually over the years, it gets to be long enough for them to pick up in their hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself."
As a teenager, that thread was stretched thin. We clashed, as fathers and sons often do, each of us certain of our rightness, neither willing to yield. But time, as it does, softened the sharp edges of youth. Now, with the perspective of years, I look back with understanding. With gratitude. With love.
I have come to realize that in many ways, I have become my father. Not in every detail, but in the essence of who I am. I take joy in the morning light, in the quiet of a well-tended garden. I find comfort in the feel of wood beneath my fingers, in the slow, steady work of creation. And I try to live by the unspoken values he modeled: honesty, integrity, and a quiet strength.
On this Father's Day, I honor not only my own father, but all fathers who shape lives with their presence—whether through whispered bedtime stories, soil-streaked hands, or simply by showing up again and again with love.
He is still with me. In the rustle of leaves in summer. In the scent of sawdust. In the softness of an old story remembered. And in the man I have become.
“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”
— Clarence Budington Kelland
~Wylddane
When I think of him, I see his hands—weathered and strong—shaping wood in his workshop, coaxing life from soil in the gardens he so lovingly tended. He was a man who found beauty in creation, in doing, in the quiet acts that spoke louder than words. There was no need for long speeches or emotional declarations.
The lessons came through the rhythm of his labor, the care he gave to the earth, and the attention he gave to me—especially in those moments when he read to me.
I don’t remember the exact stories, but I remember his voice. His presence. The sound of the pages turning. I remember how safe and loved I felt, curled beside him. Those early years gave me something unshakable.
As one writer once said: "There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his children, and gradually over the years, it gets to be long enough for them to pick up in their hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself."
As a teenager, that thread was stretched thin. We clashed, as fathers and sons often do, each of us certain of our rightness, neither willing to yield. But time, as it does, softened the sharp edges of youth. Now, with the perspective of years, I look back with understanding. With gratitude. With love.
I have come to realize that in many ways, I have become my father. Not in every detail, but in the essence of who I am. I take joy in the morning light, in the quiet of a well-tended garden. I find comfort in the feel of wood beneath my fingers, in the slow, steady work of creation. And I try to live by the unspoken values he modeled: honesty, integrity, and a quiet strength.
On this Father's Day, I honor not only my own father, but all fathers who shape lives with their presence—whether through whispered bedtime stories, soil-streaked hands, or simply by showing up again and again with love.
He is still with me. In the rustle of leaves in summer. In the scent of sawdust. In the softness of an old story remembered. And in the man I have become.
“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”
— Clarence Budington Kelland
~Wylddane
"Dad's Garden" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
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