I often talk about the strong women in my life in these columns. I also had two incredible males in my life, my dad and my grandpa.
I’ll bet you have some good men in your life as well. Good men who taught you, loved you and were there for you.
Permit me to introduce you to two of mine.
It will soon be Father’s Day. And Father’s Day always brings me back — not just to my dad, but to his dad, too. They are the two men who helped shape my understanding of what it means to be a man. Neither of them were perfect, but both of them were deeply kind. That’s what I remember most.
My dad was a quiet man, soft-spoken and hardworking. He spent most of his life doing physical labor, eventually becoming the foreman at the grocery warehouse where he worked. He had that kind of ethic in his bones — the kind that doesn’t complain, just keeps showing up.
He served two years in the U.S. Air Force in San Antonio during the Korean War. While he was stationed there, my older sister was born. I would come along two years later in Colorado.
He loved my mom. Fiercely. Maybe a little too much at times. They married young — she was just 16, and he was 21. He spent a lifetime trying to do right by her, but when you carry unspoken wounds and a heavy heart, even love can feel like an uphill climb.
I think now, as an adult, that he probably lived with a low-level depression most of his life. He never said it out loud — men didn’t talk about those things then — but I saw it in his eyes. In his heavy sighs. In the way he tried so hard to please everyone, often forgetting himself in the process.
But when he fished, something in him came alive. Fishing and woodworking — those were his joys. He could make something beautiful out of a block of wood, always for mom. Cabinets, storage boxes, you name it. Dad could sit content by a lake or river for hours, always with a bag of Tootsie Pops. Now and then, he’d say to me, “C’mon Rick, let’s get out of here, away from these women,” meaning my mom and my sisters. I was the only boy, after all, with three sisters — two younger and one older. So, when he needed to breathe, we’d slip away and head to the water.
Then there was my grandpa, my dad’s dad. He had a sweetness about him that left a lasting mark on me and my sisters. He loved us grandkids deeply. Every Saturday, he’d spend time with one of us. If we were in trouble, he’d tiptoe into our room when the dust had settled and press a piece of Wrigley’s gum into our hand, always double mint or spearmint. No lecture, no scolding. Just a little love and a little grace.
And then, the prayer would follow. The gum and the prayer always went hand in hand.
If I had trouble sleeping, I’d ask him to pray with me — and he always would. The same comforting words every time: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
There was a peace in his voice, a warmth that tucked me in better than any blanket could.
He was the one who taught me how to fish. He’d take me camping and fishing in the lakes and rivers around Western Colorado, teaching me in hushed tones how to approach the water.
“Rickey,” he’d say, “you have to sneak up on the fish, or you’ll scare them away. And always spit on the hook.”
I never asked why. I just did it. Because when your grandpa says it with that kind of certainty, you listen.
At night, by the campfire, he’d read the Bible to me, and then we'd pray. There was something sacred about those nights. Faith felt close out there — close like a grandfather’s whisper or a prayer before sleep.
As I reflect this Father’s Day, I realize it wasn’t just the fishing or the gum or the bedtime prayers. It was presence. My father and grandfather showed up for me and my sisters. Not always perfectly. Not without their flaws. But they showed up. They were there.
And that’s what I carry forward — the lesson that being a father isn’t about perfection. It’s about the small things. It’s about walking beside your child, pole in hand. It’s about a piece of gum after a hard day. It’s about kneeling beside a bed when they ask for prayer. It’s about staying, even when you don’t have all the answers.
So here’s to the fathers who stayed. Who fished. Who prayed. Who offered love not with thunder, but with presence.
I carry their love still.
Happy Father’s Day.
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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare.
