Happy Father’s Day, Dad

I was not the son my father wanted. He wanted a SuperKid. He got a Bookworm instead.

He wanted a SuperKid because he was a SuperDad.

Early in life, Dad distinguished himself in sports: football, baseball and boxing. A member of the Greatest Generation, he helped win World War II and was awarded a Purple Heart for battlefield injuries incurred in Germany.

He was talented as a carpenter, building two houses in his lifetime, virtually by himself. He also built several boats.

He had skills as a mechanic. If a car stopped running, he could fix it.

Like so many who grew up in rural, mountainous western North Carolina, Dad was expert at farming, hunting and fishing.

He played guitar and sang. And for almost five decades, he was an ordained minister, pastoring several churches and spreading the Gospel through radio broadcasts and abroad in the mission field.

Dad expected me, as his firstborn, to follow in his footsteps. He put boxing gloves on me when I was a tyke, but it wasn’t in my makeup to hit people. Nor could I drive a nail, fix a car or play a guitar. (Dad taught me some guitar chords and I practiced till my fingers bled, but to no avail.) And I couldn’t carry a tune in a tow sack.

Neither were my religious interests as strong as Dad expected. Instead of memorizing scripture, I memorized baseball statistics.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t live up to his expectations. And he wasn’t hesitant about expressing his disappointment in me, sometimes blaming himself for my ineptness.

This had a profound effect on me as a kid, and it figured greatly in my decision to run away from home at age 16 and join the circus (radio).

I received somewhat of a reprieve when my siblings came along and exhibited many of the same talents as Dad. I was shunted aside to do the mundane farm work that required no special skills: chopping weeds, feeding chickens, milking the cow.

My interests were mainly news and current events, which I kept up with by reading and listening to the radio. My school teachers frequently asked me to stand before the class and report on the events of the day. This skill had no practical application on our small farm, but it served me well in my future occupation.

Many men of Dad’s generation never spoke the word “love” in a personal way. Dad never told me he loved me. Nor did I tell him.

While there was no open hostility or estrangement, a distance existed between Dad and me. Not until I was in my 30s, and he in his 50s, did we begin to close the divide.

After I enjoyed some success in broadcasting, writing and public speaking, Dad began to understand that he hadn’t failed me as a father. I began to understand I hadn’t failed him as a son either.

(It didn’t hurt that I’d written the lyrics to two gospel songs that were recorded by his favorite singing group, the Chuck Wagon Gang.)

In my Dad’s later years, I would join the family for an annual camping trip on Nantahala Lake. We were sitting around the campfire one evening when I heard words I proudly remember every Father’s Day.

Dad had been fishing with his two brothers that day, and with Dad out of earshot, one of my uncles said to me, “Dave, your dad is so proud of you! You’re all he talked about all day.”

That’s when I realized it’s better to have your Dad proud of you as a man … than as a boy.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.

Dave Hogan is a native of Andrews. His was one of the first voices heard on WKRK radio when it went on the air in 1958 being spending most of his career in Asheville and Johnson City, Tenn. He is now retired and living at Lake Junaluska.