This Sunday is Father's Day but I have no Dad to shop for. I usually forget Daddy's birthday, but I always think of him on Father's Day. C.A. Nichols (Nick) was a tallish, gentle, cigar-smoking, baseball fan and a Ma Bell company man for over twenty-five years. He was kind to strangers, reluctant to criticize, and slow to anger.

In fact the only time I can remember a show of temper from him happened during a Sioux City Soos' baseball game. Daddy, little Ginny and I were sitting in front of a rowdy bunch of Midwestern good-ole-boys who had belted back one too many Schlitzs. They started riding the hapless pitcher, describing each errant ball with smokin' words Ginny and I had never heard before.

After a few innings Daddy stood up, turned around, and told the offenders, "Please don't swear in front of my family", then sat back down. They snickered and let loose with some good ones. Daddy stood up again and asked, in a somewhat firmer voice, "Would you like to settle this in the parking lot?". Ginny and I weren't sure what this entailed, but we knew that it wasn't good. The hecklers must have recognized the look of a man who'd been pushed too far and moved over a section.

During the recent graduation trip to Knoxville, I attended my yearly church service and sat next to my son Jon. The best part of church is the songs—I Come to the Garden, What a Friend, Faith of our Fathers. The words never make much sense, but the tunes are grand. Anyways, there I was in Tennessee at church next to Jon singing one of my old favorites. I heard Jon's true-to-pitch, quiet, bass voice and felt like I was ten years old and back at the Presbyterian Church in Lyons, Nebraska.
  
Our family went to church every week, we (the girls) never wanted to but my Mom thought it was her duty to at least introduce us to religion. Nikki, Ginny and I jostled for position every Sunday, trying to sit next to Daddy. Sometimes my elbows were the sharpest and I got the prize. He smelled like Old Spice and cigars, felt like safety and scratchy wool, and sounded like God. He had a lovely, deep bass voice, sang in perfect harmony, and knew all the words.

Sitting next to my Jon, a tallish, lovely, gentle man, and  listening to him sing with a similar true-to-pitch, deep, bass voice was like being beamed back in time. I could smell the hymnals, feel the drowse in the summer air, catch the sparkle of the light reflecting off Daddy's Masonic ring, and see the sun streaming through the stained glass lambs. Although Jon doesn't smell like Old Spice or cigars, the light, the sound, the spot-on harmony, and the feeling of contentment was the same as those Sundays years ago.

So Happy Father's Day Jon, my dad would be proud of you.



Nick Nichols




Jon Salem and someone I don't really recognize.