Father's Day ended four and a half hours ago, but I feel compelled to post on it, even if I miss the deadline.

Instead of simply writing about why my father is important to me or how much I love him, I'll simply tell two stories.

Some of you may be shocked to learn that I wasn't the perfect kid when I was growing up. In grade school, my marks from teachers were rather poor. They were bad enough that the counseller tried to exempt me from the CAT standardized test to keep our school's grades up. Most of my teacher's liked me okay, but when you don't pay attention in class or turn in homework, there's only so much they can do for you. Throughout elementary school, they just bumped my grade up to 70 (which in Texas is the lowest passing grade K-12). When I got to Intermediate school I had a teacher who was not so accomodating. My grade in the first six weeks was a 60, ten points below passing.

When parents have a failing kid, there are a number of reactions they have. Some don't care, some say "do better next time", some yell and curse, others mete out punishment. My parents could see that this was more than just a slip-up and unless something changed, it wasn't going to be an isolated incident. But my father isn't the type to yell or get angry. Instead, he sat me down and explained what we were going to do to improve my grades. They personally met with every teacher I had (not just the one I failed with) and gave them a stamped post card. If I ever missed an assignment or failed a test, they said to just write a note and send the post card. Though I wasn't punished for failing that first class (the deed was done), it was understood that I would be grounded for each and every assignment that I did not turn in.

More importantly, Dad sat down with me every night and I had to explain to him what we did in class that day. If there was homework, he wanted to see it. Dad worked full time at NASA, enjoyed sports as much as anyone, and had a hundred other things he could have been doing with his time. Instead, he sat down with me and helped me work through the math problems that plagued me, the science that I hated, and the English writing and reading material that I had so much difficulty producing and reading. He didn't back off and tell me that I just needed to find a way to do better, nor did he simply pass it off as the school's problem for failing me or failing to teach me. It wasn't something the district had to do or just something I had to do, it was something we all did together. I never failed another class and I made straight A's my last two grading periods at Seabrook Intermediate.

By the time I was in high school, I didn't need his help anymore. In December of 2001, I graduated college with thirty honors class hours to my credit and were it not for some unrelated troubles my senior year, I likely would have graduated with honors. I can honestly say that there is no way that would have happened had my father not been willing to roll up his sleeves and take a pro-active role in my education.

The second story also took place in the sixth grade. In addition to my academic troubles, I was just starting to test my boundaries and what I could and could not get away with. While I wasn't busting hub-caps, I was clearly breaking rules that I knew I was expected to obey. It all came to a head when I had forged a note from my parents to get back a magazine I was reading when I should have been listening to the teacher. I was in deep crapola and I knew it.

When he got back in to town he sat me down and gave me a very calm lecture on honesty, following the rules, and doing what's right even when you don't think you'll get caught. He handed down a month of no television, computer, video games, or friends. What I'll never forget was the worst punishment he handed down of all. Right before he left me to think about what I'd done, he said "I don't know when I'm going to be able to trust you again."

Coming from my father with his even temper and Mid-Western sensibilities, there was nothing he could have done to make me feel more low. Compared to that, being grounded was nothing. I ended up getting off my grounding half a week early, but I really didn't care about that. I wanted to know when Dad would trust me again.

It takes a tremendous man to have that kind of moral authority with his rebellious thirteen year old son, but my father is that kind of man.