My father is an anomaly. 
He grew up in a time when 
boys were supposed to be
tough and masculine, always 
showing strength, stoic,
unaffected by pain or
emotional hurt, dependable. 
His father was a skilled 
carpenter, a machinist with
an engineer’s mind, but not 
wealthy enough to be educated. 
Chauncey was an artist, a violinist,
a builder, a skater, an automobile 
maker , a Jack of all Trades, a quiet
introvert, not practiced in 
the art of parenting. 
Most men in the thirties and forties 
weren’t . It wasn’t expected. 
Yet somehow, my father,
also an artist, a carpenter, a sailor,
a builder, a singer, a reader and
an educator, was a patient 
responsible, loving parent.
He worked two and three jobs
while building our home,
plumbing, wiring, painting,
designing and constructing
all of it by himself. 
Our water came from 
a cistern he created. 
He taught me about trees,
birds, stars and constellations. 
He canned beans, put our kitchen 
wherever Mom wanted it.
He built an outhouse 
because three daughters 
and a wife with one bathroom …
He taught me to drive a stick shift,
to love nature, to work hard
and be dependable, to use tools
and paint walls, to build a fire
and change a tire. 
My father has always loved me,
through all my mistakes
and disppointments.
He has been my role model,
always consistent, ever humble.
I wish I could have given 
my daughters a father like mine.

6/16/24
KW