In tribute to Tim Russert, who died on June 13. Reading his books, "Big Russ and Me," and "Wisdom of Our Fathers, I was encouraged to write this letter to my father, which I did on Father's Day. Thank you, Tim.

Big Orval and Me

My father died two weeks before I graduated from high school, in 1966. He was 46. A sudden heart attack. Forty-six seems old to an eighteen year old. I've come to understand how young it really was.

By most counts, my father would have been considered an average, normal, everyday kind of guy. He graduated from high school, went into the service during WWII for four years, got out, married, had one child, me, went to trade school and became a plumber, became president of the local plumbers and pipefitters union, was commander of the local Legion, on the town board, and held the record for the 100 yard dash in the local high school for some twenty years. He drank a little too much on occasion, liked spending time with his male friends bowling, shooting pool, and playing golf. He loved to play softball, which he did the night before he died. He was a Democrat, not into church-going, always had a cigar in his mouth, and always wore a cap, which I call a "cat hat." The evening he died, I had just returned home from a baseball game. I was eager to tell him that we won the district title and I drove in the winning run. I never got the chance. My mother called, asking me to come to the hospital, that my father had a heart attack. She didn't want to tell me he had died on the phone. "I'm sorry, dad died. He didn't suffer." Hard words for a wife to say and an 18 year old son to hear. Words you're never prepared for.

Eighteen years is not a long time. Still, my father gave me some things which remain with me to this day. One of those lessons came while we were shopping for a new ball glove for me. I ran through the doors, bolting right in front of an older couple, headed for the sporting goods department. When I got there, no father. I went back up-front, than outside, where my father was standing, talking to an older couple. He was apologizing to the couple,for my bolting in front of them and not holding open the doors. It seems odd now, he was apologizing for me and himself, as thought we had both stepped in front of them. I was all of eight or nine. He told them, and me, that he hoped that would never happen again. He didn't embarrass me, or belittle me, but made it clear that respect was to be shown to older people, and women. I hold the door for both today, even though it is no longer so fashionable. When I do, it never fails that I remember this lesson.

One of the things my father and I did together was go to the tavern on Sunday morning, after I returned from Sunday school. While this would not be highly thought of today, it was a tradition in the German town I grew up in. Boys had to learn what a tavern was. One particular morning, a black man, probably 60-65 years old, stopped in to pick up a 6-pack, headed for a local creek to fish. I was playing a pinball machine. He went up to the bar to pay, and some of the local guys told the bartender not to sell any beer to a "nigger," As though it were yesterday, I remember my father getting up, paying for the beer, and escorting the gentleman out. No one said a word when he came back in, including my father, but I got the point.

Another thing my father and I did together was go down to the local power plant for a shower. At the time, we were living in an apartment and the bathroom only had a tub. About once a week we would go down for a shower. I can remember those trips as being a special time with my father. I don't remember any specific things said, or any special lessons, only that it stands out in my memory as a special time, when my father and I, naked as jaybirds, enjoyed a good, warm shower together. I do remember it beating the heck out of that tub.

Since May 10, 1966, I have missed my father. I wonder how things would have been between us, how our relationship would have developed, what he would think of me? How he would have dealt with a daughter-in-law and two grandkids? He would be 88.

Anyway, sitting here on the back porch, thinking about him, tears coming to my eyes, I hope he realized how much I loved him. Some would say I should get over it, but I would prefer not to. Those tears keep his memory alive. When they come, it somehow draws me back to him.

I almost died myself at age 52. Now I realize how young he really was. My father never laid a hand on me, never yelled at me, never called me crazy names. He taught me to be responsible and respectful, to give to others less fortunate, and to respect character, not skin color. Emotions were not shown very freely in our German community. I saw my father cry twice, at his dads funeral, and at the funeral of a friend. I don't remember him saying "I love you." Nor do I remember saying that to him. I waited way too long to say, Dad, I love you. Thanks.