Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

It's Father's Day. The time to celebrate the man with the swimmers and remember both the good and bad times that made you who you are today.

I seriously have nothing but good memories of my Dad. I'm sure that there must have been some things on the dark side, but I can't remember any. Not one.

I remember watching him spit-shine his black lace-up National Guard boots until you could see your reflection in the toe. Then there was the day that he came in from work and said, "hey, catch this!" He tossed a realistic looking cork red "brick" at me from across the room. I was a kid, but looking back . . . what a great learning experience that was. It taught me to think fast, run for cover, and scream all at the same time. A sort of pre-school lesson in multi-tasking.

He made professional quality "mail boxes" for my Valentine parties at Midway Elementary School, a poster board weather station for science class, and covered my books with an acrylic material that he got from work way before it was available on the general market... my school books were cool.

Today kids wear helmets and pads, fall into soft rubber on the playground, and don't keep score when playing organized soccer and baseball. When I was a kid my dad gave me a kit to melt lead and mold my own toy soldiers. You even had to use the soot from a burning candle to coat the molds to prevent the molten metal from sticking. Liquid metal, matches, candles and a poisonous substance . . . what was he thinking? Maybe that I was a responsible kid. After all, I had already mastered the fine art of wood burning with a 1,000-degree tool, using a toasty Mattel Vac-U-Form and building plastic models with buzz-inducing glue.

I still marvel at the thought of Dad teaching me to drive our big Ford in the back parking lot of Belvedere Plaza. I was slow at getting the hang of braking without slamming us both into the dash board. He used the same even mannered technique on me that he had used to teach my Mom several years before. We both survived.

I remember his homemade chili, grilled cheese sandwiches and Pepsi. Our trips to Jekyll Island along the Georgia coast and stopping at Stuckey's for a pecan nut log and divinity are legendary.

My Dad taught me to play baseball; how to throw and how to pitch, how to bat, cheer on a team mate, and how to never give up even when you knew you couldn't win. I was his bat boy at Midway Heights Little League before I was old enough to play, then went on to be a part of his championship-bound major league Pirates by the time I was 11.

Looking back at growing up in the '50s, my Dad was a combination of Ward Cleaver and Andy Taylor, something that I have tried hard to emulate over the years with my brood, though falling short many times.

It's been said that any man can be a father, but it takes someone really special to be a dad. I know first hand that it's true. My Dad pulled it off and I love him for it.

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.