I just remembered Sunday is Father’s Day and that my dad, at 90, died four months ago, nearly to the day. Those two things together are what I’d forgotten. I can’t say I recall any specifics about celebrating Father’s Day with him; my dad never made a big deal about it. He just went about his business — maybe cutting the lawn or slapping a little paint on the garage.
When he did relax, he sat on the cement patio in a plastic-and-metal chair, sipping an iced tea with lemonade (an Arnold Palmer) from a copper-colored glass. Unlike me, he didn’t knock back a beer or sip wine.
My mom, who passed way last September, didn’t cook him anything special, because he liked to grill steak over coals on Sunday. I remember those steaks, though. He splurged on T-bones. And he always waited until the lighter fluid burned off before setting meat to flame.