my grandpa and me, 1975.

I’m thinking of them today.

My father’s father is recuperating from cancer surgery, trying to figure out life in a body he barely recognizes. My mother’s father is in Mongolia. He’s preaching, I think. We’re not totally sure.

My father? He’s 45 minutes away, living with his wife and his dad in a house that probably feels too small for three people at times. But they do it, and they drive him to appointments, and they love him, and they make it work.

(I think they’d do it, this caretaking, for my mother’s father, too, but he never stays home long enough to do much but argue theology and wink with pride when I argue back. And my father’s father would rather that no one have to take care of him at all.)

My father’s father is a tough guy, a golfing guy, a guy’s guy. He grew up in a tiny town in Manitoba, one of many brothers, comfortable around the farm. He made it to the tenth grade. He married his sweet, shy teacher a few years later.

They moved across the prairies, and he got a job at a mill. He worked there for 43 years.

He is a former hockey player, a logdriver, and a workshop-fiddling, car-washing, suit-and-tie-for-church-on-Sunday kind of guy.

He has two kids. My aunt is a Daddy’s girl, to be sure, gregarious and beautiful. My father is what his father dreamed he would be: a man of conviction who loves his family like nothing else on earth.

And now they take care of him. Because he’s sick, and small, and thin. Still tough as nails, mind you, but in need of something he cannot work out on his own. So they are there.

My mother’s father is a minister who can smile like heaven and bellow like hell. He is a traveller, a wanderer, a maker of points. He grew up in Belfast, hardscabble, street-preaching, one of many brothers, comfortable when his voice was raised.

He was gorgeous, musical, and ruthlessly charming as a young man, and grew into a more rotund, wrinkle-eyed, off-key version of the same.

He is a former horse-owning guy, a weird health remedies guy, a bird-watching, globetrotting, suit-and-tie-for-church-on-Sunday kind of guy.

He has four daughters. I could write a whole novel about the dynamics there. Suffice it to say that they exist as both a reflection of, and a reaction to the man he is.

Both of these men are dear to my heart, without a doubt.

And then there is my dad. He loves me more than any other guy ever has in my whole life. He will do that, too, until someone steps up to the plate and is crazy enough to love me more.

He is brilliant, uncompromising, witty, easygoing, well-read, and full of hopes and dreams for his (not so) little girl. And he has always, always, always believed in me. No matter where I go or what I do, I know he’ll do everything in his power to support me.

These men are the men in my life. They’ve taught me about love. They’ve taught me about believing in myself. They’ve taught me what pisses me off about men. They’ve taught me about what I do and don’t want in a relationship.

And that a good man is worth the wait.

Because I’m waiting.

Patiently.

Sometimes.

I love you three. And I could not be more blessed.

Happy Father’s Day.