Remembering my Dad

As of late, my blog posts have all revolved around our beautiful Mayzie Ann. I am happy to report that she is doing well, and doing cuter things (seemingly) by the hour.

I thought that today I would devote some time, though, to remembering my Dad. It was four years ago today that my life changed forever when I got the call that my Dad had been in a motorcycle accident. I'll never forget that call, sitting at my desk in graduate school, trying to figure out if I needed to go get another cup of coffee and counting down the days until I could write my dissertation, defend it, and move on. The phone call came from the sheriff of Morrison County, and he was contacting me because he had been unable to reach my Mom on her cell phone. I'll also never forget having to call my Mom and sisters to tell them the news, getting on that red eye flight from San Diego to Boston, the drive to the airport, or the feeling I had when we found out that he was not going to make it. My only wish now is that no one would have to go through that pain, but it has happened millions of times before and it will happen again to millions of people over the course of time. My intention today, though, is not to dwell on the sadness of those days following my Dad's accident or the sadness of every day since, but rather to focus on what an amazing man my Dad was.

The picture above is the one I used in the Dedication page of my dissertation. The page read "This dissertation is dedicated to my Dad who loved and supported me always and worked harder than anyone I have ever known to support his family." The words on that page could not be more true. My Dad spent so much time with me going to hockey practices, driving me to away games, building skating rinks for me in the winter, teaching me how to drive (tractor, car and motorcycle), playing ping pong with me in the basement, playing horse and 1 on 1 in the driveway, and the list goes on and on, that I sometimes took for granted that all those things were not his full time job. I'll never forget when I was invited to try out for the Minnesota Selects All-Star hockey team in Fergus Falls and Dad got up with me at 5:00 am (which, in retrospect, was not even early for him) to drive to Fergus Falls for tryouts. When I didn't make the team, there was never any disappointment in his face or voice, but pride that I had tried. I was, am and always will be in awe of his ability to be both fiercely competitive, and also annoyingly humble.

I mentioned above that Dad built a rink for me every winter so I could skate whenever I wanted, and trust me, I took advantage of it. What still amazes me is how much he did not want me to be a hockey player when I was little. In case you are reading this and didn't know, my Dad was quite the wrestler in high school. Well, I seem to recall stories about how Jim Smieja's kid would never play hockey... he was going to be a wrestler! Little did Dad know, I would not like getting beat up by other sweaty five year olds, and would instead rather be on the ice like my big brothers Ben and Josh LeBlanc. So, with reluctance, Dad let me join hockey at the ripe old age of 5, and by the time I was 8 or 9 years old he was coaching my team.

The picture above is one of my favorites ever of Dad. When I picture him, it is always in winter gear. I guess it makes sense since most of my best memories (hockey, skating outside and ice fishing) are with him in the winter, and some of my worst (bailing hay, building fences and picking up cow manure) are with him in the summer. Actually, that's not true, I always look back on those times of hard, and sometimes stinky work, as some of the best of my life. Anyway, back to the picture. So you might think, if you don't know my Dad, that the picture above is him venturing out of the heated ice house to try and find a better spot. You'd be wrong. You see, until I moved out of the house and no longer went ice fishing regularly, there was no ice house. Often times, in fact, there wasn't even a seat. We went out, dressed in twenty-six layers of clothing, stood with our backs to the wind, and I hoped we wouldn't catch any fish because I didn't want to take my mittens off to get them off the hook. Despite the conditions, though, it was always fun to spend time with Dad on the lake, whether hot or cold, windy or calm, fish or no fish.

So, today on the four year anniversary of the worst day of my life, as I sit here crying and writing this, I can't help but be incredibly happy and thankful for the 27 years I had with my Dad. He was a role model not only to Christina, Denise and myself, but to countless other kids who's lives he touched, hundreds of co-workers at Camp Ripley, the Granite Works and the Morrison County Jail who had the privilege of working with him, the inmates that would find him on the rare occasion he was out at the bar and buy him a beer, and pretty much anyone who ever knew him well enough to see how great he was. 

So today, 

and six days from now when I celebrate my first Father's Day, 

and the days in between 

and every day for the rest of my life, 

I'll miss my Dad and wish he was still here to watch my kids grow up, help me with repairs on my house, and take me fishing. I love you Dad, and happy early Father's Day.

Mom and Dad on their first date. :)