These parental holidays can be a real drag to those of us who no longer have our parents, but over the years I have come to the point where instead of being sad because I lost mine, I try to sit and remember the wonderful things about them. I loved my dad. Very much. He was not an angel while he was here. He was the life of the party. He loved fun. I remember hearing jingle bells at Christmas time, while he told us Santa was on the roof and we’d best get to sleep if we wanted any toys. I remember mom getting me out of bed before Easter so I could see the Easter Bunny kicking at the door, trying to get in to deliver chocolate bunnies (no doubt, dad hiding behind the porch railing with a puppet). I remember loop the loops in his airplane that made the room spin when I got home. I remember giant parties in the back yard with all the neighbors and lots of his friends from neighboring towns. I remember doing dishes one evening in winter and complaining of being bored and dad realizing that it was time to take all his kids to get ice skates, so we could go skate on Shelton’s Pond. I remember riding in the car, my parents and us four kids, pulling a BeeLine trailer as we traveled from Connecticut across the country to the Seattle World’s Fair the summer after 2nd grade. I remember him letting me ride a pony at the carnival below Mt. Rushmore on my 8th birthday. I remember him teaching me to swim. He had his faults, but he was a great dad. Probably the best film reference I have that makes me think of my dad is from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” where Francie reads her essay about her dad to her mother. Yes, when I walked down the street with my dad, I felt as though I were walking with a king.