Thanks Dad

I don’t remember how old I was but it was around the time I had my six-year-old molars yanked. My dad and I were in the basement restoring his 1953 Ford Pickup. He was up under the hood, working on the engine when his hand slipped, crushing his fingers. What I heard next was a curse word — which was unusual for my dad.

I looked at him and said, “Isn’t it wrong to say that?”

My dad wiped his brow, held his throbbing fingers and said something that has stuck with me for the next 40 years. “I know. But I try to be good to people to make up for it.”

That’s my dad. Flawed yet at the end of the day, perfect. A perfect dad for me, that is. And I am sure my two sisters would agree.

His name is Dave Ramsey. No, not that Dave Ramsey, but he is that Dave’s uncle and the person he’s named after. And please allow me to tell you about him. We have a bad habit of only saying nice things about people when they die. My dad is 79 and is very much alive. I hope he knows I feel this way about him already. But this is what you need to know.

He’s ornery, funny, handsome, grumpy, smart, distant yet loving. When he’s on his A game, his wit is second to none. He’s a master salesman who could sell ice to an eskimo. He loves the Special Dinner at any Mexican restaurant (and will proclaim it to be the best meal he’s ever had), UT football, cheap beer, his cats, cars and his children. He and his neighbor owned a car garage for years — a place where I saw his generosity first time. He has been physically strong his whole life and waterskied at 78. He beat cancer 16 years ago; it hardly slowed him down. In his career, he sold cars, electronics, chemicals, fasteners and then in 1974, he switched gears and bought a gas station. I admire him for having he courage to change careers like that. Forty years later, I’m doing the same thing.

I can tell you his faults — because I have most of them. He yells when he’s frustrated and is stubborn. So am I. Sometimes he doesn’t finish a project. Nor do I. And like me, he worked his ass off at his job. He’d work long, long hours — but I always loved seeing his car when he’d come home. He’d always fall asleep in his chair. He still does.

Dad served his country with distinction. He was a corporal in the U.S. Army in the 101st Airborne Division. He also played college basketball and baseball. I sucked at both. I always wondered if that bothered him — that I was different from him. Yet he was proud of me as an athlete and loved watching me play football. Today, he is proud of me now for many other reasons. Once, after I spoke at the Millsaps Arts and Lecture Series, he told me, “You’re the only person I’ve known who knew what he wanted to do when he was eight years old and did it.”

It was one of my finest career moments.

A few years ago, I asked him about success. I always wondered if he was totally happy with the career path he took. He told me, “I see you three kids and know I’m the most successful man around.”

He had his priorities straight.

When his dad died, I saw him change. He hugged me for the first time at his funeral. Losing your dad will do that.

You learn from your parents until they are gone. He’s my textbook, good and bad, on being a father to my own boys (who call him Papa Dave). I’m lucky I still have both of my parents teaching me. And I know they both love me. They believed in my crazy dream. He and my mom have left me my inheritance early.

My cousin Dave Ramsey is wildly successful. But I will assert that my dad Dave Ramsey is, too. He has successfully given me a lifetime of memories.

And I just hope I’m as good of a dad as he has been to me.