Father’s Day is next Sunday, June 15, 2025. Fathers everywhere will be celebrated and enjoy a special day to be spoiled by their kids.

When I was in college in Oklahoma City, my parents moved to the east coast, and a long-distance relationship was what we had from then on—a once-a-week phone call, letters and packages by mail for birthdays and holidays, and an occasional in-person visit when I took time off from my job or Mom and Dad traveled across the country to stay with me for a few days. As an adult, I did not have a close bond with my folks, but I have sweet memories of being raised by caring parents in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My dad was two months short of 90 years old when he passed away seventeen years ago, but I have plenty of memories to honor him on Father’s Day.

My dad was born in the USA, but his parents came here from Lithuania. They spoke Lithuanian in their home, and Dad had to repeat kindergarten because he spoke broken English. Despite this rough start, he attended Boys Technical and Trade School in Milwaukee. After graduation, some of his friends moved to Chicago to join the Mafia, but he chose a different life. He became a tool and die maker.

He met my mom at a dance and married her before serving in the Army in World War II, a life event he seldom talked about. My sister was born while Dad was overseas. Kathy kept the telegram Grandma sent to congratulate him on his new baby girl.

After the war, Dad got a job with General Electric. He worked for them over thirty-five years and provided us with a safe, comfortable home. He was proud to have designed the blueprints for the house we moved into when I was in second grade. Dad loved learning. He joined clubs and took classes throughout his life. In his eighties, he bought a new digital camera and taught himself how to use it.

Photography was his favorite hobby. When we were growing up, Dad developed his black-and-white film in a darkroom he built in our basement. He organized his photos in albums for me to cherish today, going back to when he first met my mom, including photos of them in their black leather jackets on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

On Saturday evenings, my sister and I watched The Lone Ranger on television while Mom made hamburgers for an early dinner. I can still smell the flavorful aroma of beef and onions cooking on the stove when anyone mentions that TV show. After supper, Dad loaded us up in the Oldsmobile and took us to the movies at matinee prices for cartoons and a double feature.

Dad taught my sister and me how to play golf. He took us fishing on summer days and to baseball games in downtown Milwaukee. On the Fourth of July, we went to the park for a picnic, ice cream, and fireworks. When he had a two-week vacation, he hooked up our tiny travel trailer, and we would take trips across the country, from California to Florida and all states in between.

Thanks, Dad and Mom, for the loving memories.

FISHIN’ 
by Dee Bowlin

Growing up, I’d go with Dad 
to his favorite fishin’ hole. 
He’d bring his fancy rod and reel 
and, for me, an old cane pole. 
We’d take the pickup to the pond 
and find the shadiest spot,  
unpack all of our fishin’ gear 
’fore the sun got burnin’ hot. 
Dad’s tackle box was filled with lures, 
but for my hook, we used worms. 
I wouldn’t touch those slimy things, 
squealin’ while I watched ’em squirm. 
After he got his line all set, 
we’d throw mine in the water 
and sit down on the grassy bank, 
watchin’ that round red bobber. 

We’d sip on homemade lemonade 
while talkin’ ’bout my future—
what I’d be when I grew up— 
a doctor or a teacher.
When we’d finally get a nibble, 
I’d scream, and Dad would say,
“With all of that commotion, 
we let the big one get away.”  
We rarely took fish home to fry, 
and Mom was probably glad. 
It didn’t matter anyway, 
’cause I went fishin’ with my dad.