A Tribute To My Dad

I’ve been thinking about my dad this week, because he died just before Thanksgiving, seventeen years ago. My old-fashioned Dutch dad was a stoic, hard-working farmer. I can’t remember my dad ever telling me in words that he loved me. Neither was hugging done in my family in those days. He had signature sayings like, “Life is for the living,” “If you don’t work you don’t eat,” “All I want is cooperation!” The Webster’s dictionary defines the word stoic as, “a person who can endure hardship or pain without showing emotion or complaining” The word fits him perfectly.


My dad could often be a stubborn man. It was his way or the highway. He demanded that we work on the farm, and you never skipped church unless you were in the hospital. But I respect the qualities which made him so much more.


Love was shown in many ways other than words. One of the earliest remembrances I have of my dad, was of him pushing me in the swing. The tree which held the swing was on his way from the house to the barn. No matter how busy he was—if I was sitting in the swing it happened the same way. I just had to look at him. Being the youngest of six, and a girl too. . .  when he walked my way he took the time to give me a few pushes. I giggled and said, “Push me higher!” and he did.

Tree swing photo

The tree which had the swing

A very early memory. . .  when I was about four years old, I played with a neighbor boy, whose family rented a house from my dad. Ricky told me it would be fun to knock out the windows of a chicken coop as he handed me his extra stick. It seemed dangerous but exciting to hear the crash of dozens of square panes exploding on the concrete. Soon, the deed was told, as everything was in that country neighborhood. I stood in the back porch of our old farmhouse with my head down as my dad told me not to play with that boy again. I don’t remember my punishment, but I certainly obeyed him.


When riding with a girlfriend in high school, we got in a bad car accident. A farm implement scraped the entire side of the car, cutting out all the windows on my side, leaving most of us completely covered in fine shards of glass. My dad arrived at the hospital before we did. His presence spoke loudly.


My teenage girlfriends and I just had to go to the Easter Sunrise service way out in Bentheim, after a huge ice storm. Instead of allowing any of us to drive, my dad drove us on the thick ice at six o’clock in the morning. On the way up the hill in front of Randy Klingenberg’s family farm, the wheels just spun. He instructed us all to push the car, even in our new Easter dresses, nylons and heels. We had a lesson in determination.


When I was a young driver, backing out of the parking spot at home, I drove over one of my beloved farm cats. I ran inside crying to my dad. He calmly told me he would bury the cat. When he thought I wasn’t looking. . . he put the cat in an old feed sack and brought it way out in the field, making sure to bury it beyond where I ever walked so I wouldn’t see the spot.


I never had an official curfew time in high school, but one time I was extremely late as I tip-toed past his bedroom door. As I crossed that irritating creak in the floor that could not be avoided to get to my bedroom, my dad simply said, “it’s awfully late.” I always tried to get home earlier after that.


One of the few times I saw him show emotion was when my sister Audrey died at age eighteen. At one point during that first awful day, he took off in his old jalopy pickup that we called the “Sanford and Sons” truck. Gravel flew as he sped out the driveway and down the road. No one ever knew where he went to grieve the sudden unexplained loss of one of his daughters. It scared me. I never saw him drive fast or behave in that way. When we gathered in the living room a few weeks later, he announced what would be written on her gravestone. “In youth and love she sweetly rests.” Dad said so, and that was it.


In college, I dated a guy who I thought I could change and then we’d have a dreamy life together. One time, while I was home doing laundry on the weekend, dad came in and sat in the kitchen near me. He nonchalantly said that the boy was not a good influence on me and was a little “different.” I knew everything at that age, but thank the Lord my dad made me consider the cost.


Certain sayings of my dad are forever family keepsakes. Like, “Ya got that too yet then!” “If there’s food ya eat it, and if there’s not food ya don’t complain either!” My sisters and I still jokingly repeat them.


When I began dating my husband, he greatly approved of him, saying he was a reliable, hard worker. Dad sure was a good judge of character. When he stuck out his elbow to walk me down the aisle, it wasn’t a “tearful give away my daughter time.” He said something like, “OK, is this how I do it? Let’s go.” So funny, I loved him for that.

Myrna and Dad at wedding

Myrna with her dad


Grandpa K. always loved to sit and hold my babies. He didn’t talk to them but just wanted to hold them. Later he took my boys to the John Deere Days, or had them up on the roof shingling with him, so proud of those two little blondie-boys. I’m glad he lived long enough that they know who their grandpa was.


It was “my” Saturday to have dad, after his stroke. He was sitting in his wheelchair near me while I was doing my household chores. We began discussing my younger years. Usually, his speech was hard to understand, but he told me plainly, “Yes, those years weren’t good were they? I’m sorry they were tough on you,” with moisture clouding his view. On rare occasions, I could perceive what was behind those olive-colored eyes.


The last five years of his life were very difficult for him but I never heard any complaints. My dad lived a full life, traveled all over the nation by car, tirelessly worked on the farm, and loved to mix with people every chance he had. Abilities like driving, walking, dressing, bathing, and finally talking, faded. His dignity was stripped away from him in painful shreds.


Many years back, when my husband and I built our house in the country, my dad and stepmother gave us money to buy a special tree. We chose a Red Bud and it grew in tandem with my boys, for fifteen years. Every Spring we enjoyed bright purple buds right outside our living room window. First, the boys played under it with the dog, then mowed the lawn around it, and later it was the background for their prom pictures.



My dad had a series of strokes over a five-year period and went on to his reward in heaven when our boys were ten and thirteen years old. The Red Bud tree was a symbol of him, so it bothered me that we couldn’t take it along with us when we moved into town. One Spring day, my dear husband drove in with a Red Bud tree to plant in our new yard. As it changes through the seasons, it reminds me of my dad. It’s outside the living room window behind my mom’s piano.


The new Red Bud tree outside the window


Do you have a story about your dad or a special male mentor in your life? I’d like to hear about it.

About Myrna Folkert

Myrna is an author who desires to use her gifts to glorify God. She's created this blog to tell stories of her childhood, musings about life, motherless daughters, grief and loss, faith in God, her family history, and facts about the Long QT syndrome. She also has a hearing condition called Tinnitus. Doing interviews with motherless daughters like herself are of great interest. Join in discussions by following this blog and commenting. She would love to hear your stories about life. Myrna is a Christ follower, wife, mother, sister, friend, aunt, and cousin. She was an elementary school teacher for 27 years; now works in her church, and a few other volunteer activities such as Hospice doing "Life Reviews" and Vigils. Myrna loves to read, write, listen to music, go to concerts, and take pictures. Her favorite pastime is boating with her husband near the beautiful shores of West Michigan.
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7 Responses to A Tribute To My Dad

  1. Robert W. Miner, MD says:

    Well said, Myrna!
    My own Dad died when I was only 3. I never had permission or support to grieve his death until I was 33. Thirty years later a dear Chaplain friend helped me with prayer and long hugs. I cried in his arms like a 3 year old. I still shed a tear or two over him on occasion these days.
    Psalm 147:2-3.


  2. Lois Blanchard says:

    Thank you Myrna. That was a very good read. Dad’s are all different. And so great to remember Thank you again.

    Love to you, Aunt Lois


  3. Sandy Main says:

    Myrna, what a beautiful tribute to your dad. I remember him, of course, growing up in the neighborhood. He’d bring us to school or pick us up in bad weather, when it was his turn, and always attended the neighborhood picnic.

    My own dad was like yours in that he didn’t say the words “I love you” or give hugs like many dads do today but we knew were loved. Dad was such a hard worker; he had to be, providing for a large family, especially with his physical limitations. I didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but looking back I’m just amazed at the strength he and my mom showed every day. And how strong their faith was. I am so blessed to have had them as parents. Miss them every day.


  4. Marilyn Tinklenberg says:

    This is so beautifully written,what a gift you have. I remember your dad so well from when we used to visit in the summer and then later years when we were in school and often visited on a Sun. And then even later years when we were in Hudsonville.


  5. Myrna, this is just so heartachingly lovely.

    My story…

    My childhood, well, could have been gentler;
    ’twas a dark back-stabbing fog.
    But thankfully I had a mentor,
    a German Shepherd Dog.
    She showed me how to laugh and play,
    and ’tis best to smile, not frown,
    and taught that at the end of day,
    one must turn thrice ‘fore lying down.
    I learned from her to take the taunts
    with a calm and stoic face,
    and to see my elders’ vaunts
    as the mark of their disgrace.
    Her greatest lesson was that loyalty
    is the finest sign of royalty.

    #1 at FMF this week.



  6. Jan A says:

    Thank you, Myrna, for offering us the time and space to reflect on our fathers who have gone before us.

    Myrna, your dad was certainly a blessing in your life! Reading your memories brought up many memories of my own and they are surprisingly similar to yours. My dad has been on my mind too, as he would have been 93 just 4 days ago. The 7th anniversary of his passing is coming up on New Years Eve.
    My dad also taught us kids a strong work ethic mostly through example by helping his dad work the farm while holding down a full time job and often 2 or 3 part time jobs to provide the needs for his family of 7 children. When we got old enough to help with chores he had a knack for making us kids think it was “fun!” to work for and alongside him.
    He was a quiet man and when he spoke, I paid attention. Like your dad, the “I love you” didn’t come often, especially in the early years. I was 27 when I first heard those words and that moment is forever etched in my mind. I treasure that moment but more importantly, his actions spoke those words of love long before I heard them.
    Playing cribbage with him as his health failed brought us many hours of quiet “being.” It was in the middle of one of these games when he asked if I would speak at his funeral. I humbly agreed and asked if there was anything special he wanted me to say. Friendships were important to Dad and he expressed sadness over the fact that many of his friends and even family were not believers. He said,”Tell them to believe on the Lord Jesus Christ. It’s their only hope in life and death.” I continue to pray for these people; that they will surrender their lives to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
    My dad didn’t expect a lot from life except for the simple joys of living. In this life he gave more than he got, and that was fine with him.


  7. Mari-Anna Frangén Stålnacke says:

    I loved your stories of your dad, thanks for sharing them. I remember my dad with fondness too. Have a blessed weekend!


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