Fathers come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Some wear uniforms, some business suits, some aprons, some safety helmets, etc.

Somehow, we each have a special place in our heart where memories of our fathers live.

My Dad was a tall, handsome man who wore uniforms of a Railway Express clerk, city bus driver, and grocery warehouse clerk.

At the Railway Express office I would sit at the huge oak roll-top desk. Sometimes he would slip little trinkets in the cubby holes for me.

When he was a bus driver I boarded his bus, dropped my nickel in the slot and rode all over the city with him.

The grocery warehouse had a huge machine for making peanut butter. He would place a stool beside it so I could add the peanut oil to the peanuts, then watch as it churned out fresh peanut butter.

I can still smell and taste the freshness of that peanut butter.

Dad and I shared much together and he showed me how to live life, not just exist — and he also taught me how to bait a hook.

We possess the same temperament and tender hearts.

My first Christmas without him was difficult, but when his birthday rolled around, the pain of his being gone was almost unbearable.

The week prior to Father’s Day I found myself in a local card/gift shop standing in front of the Father’s Day card display with tears streaming down my face.

While standing there, I felt something brush by me followed by a gust of wind. I whirled around just in time to see something or someone go around the corner of the card display.

I slowly walked around the corner and was stunned to see my Dad standing there with a card in his hand.

I know it was my Dad because he had on the suit and hat he always wore to church.

He turned and gave me that wonderful smile he always had for me.

I looked to see if anyone else was around and when I turned back he was gone.

I have no explanation for this experience, but to me it was very real and I felt an immediate peace in my heart knowing my Dad was all right.

When I was in high school, I remember him being outspoken on politics of which I knew very little.

This was in the 1950s, when segregation became a hot political issue and I had my eyes opened to the vast differences society placed on the color of one’s skin.

I always assumed that Blacks had their part of town and whites had theirs, and they didn’t meld together.

He taught me about civil rights, voting laws and the freedoms each one of us has in our society.

I became interested in the political unrest throughout the country and learned more about how it affected my life.

He was insistent that I graduate from high school and attend college.

He hoped I would become an attorney and right the wrongs I felt were so unjust.

You won’t read about him in the newspapers or history books, but I still have a special place in my heart full of memories of a very special father.

Thanks for all the love you gave me, Daddy. I still miss you.

Email Betty Heath at begeheath690@aol.com.