Hey Pops!

Recently I was going back through my blog archives (much like I do with my old journals) and realized that in 2008 I wrote a birthday post for everyone in my family except my dad. (See Tasha, Paige, Blake, Mom, Chad, and Sara). When I started, with Tasha, I didn't intend to do one for everyone. But then people started requesting and expecting them and honestly it wasn't until last week that I realized one was left out. Good thing I wasn't too late for his birthday this year.

When I think of my dad during my childhood, I remember a tall lanky fellow with a mop of dark hair. We three girls used to run and hide when we could hear him coming home from work, and then would burst out with a "surprise!" I used to love to go downtown with my mom to visit him at his office on the upper floors of the Nation Bank of Long Beach.

When we moved into the Meinhardt house, I have distinct memories of sitting on my parents bed and watching him iron his shirt for work. I remember him teaching me the correct way to iron a dress shirt (start with the collar...) It was about that time that Blake (the first boy of the family) was toddling around. I loved watching my dad and Blake hit baseballs off of tiny tees and throw wuffle balls back and forth.

Almost all of my early memories of Dad come back to baseball. I remember cool nights at the softball fields watching him play. Friday night Angel games on TV.  Visiting the fields at BYU where my dad used to play in college. Watching him coach Blake and Chad's little league teams. Sitting in the family section in the outfield at Angel Stadium. As a teenager I used to go with him when he would give high counselman talks on the third Sunday each month--and I doubt there were more than a handful of those talks that didn't have something to do with baseball. Even as a missionary, every letter I got from Dad had an baseball analogy for missionary work.

Going with my dad on church assignments was a hallmark of my childhood. He always hometaught widows and elderly in our ward. My dad liked to take avacados picked off his parent's overflowing tree in Long Beach and one or more of his daughters.  I remember countless Sunday afternoons visiting the Rugrafs, Sister Freeze, and others. He liked to bring us along so we could sing for them. I sang Nephi's Courage so many times growing up that I declared in my teenage years that I hated that song. (And of course now it's a favorite filled with fond memories that I sing often with Raymond.)

But even as I got older and my dad had to wheel and deal to get me to accompany him, I always treasured those afternoon visits. And I loved the people as much as my dad did. I don't remember him ever really sharing a lesson, but always he shared his time, his love, and his friendship. He like to visit. He liked to bring something to lighten their lives. He liked to talk and listen to their stories.  Years later my dad conducted and spoke at Sister Rugraf funeral.  He had visited her long after moving out of that ward and was to her always a treasured friend.

During my senior year of high school when my dad became Bishop, the bag of avacados he brought home from Grandma and Grandpa's house became heavier and his monthly rounds extended to more and more people. He loves people. And in his own casual, down-to-earth fashion, he connects with all people.  My dad is a true example to me of unconditional love. He doesn't judge or begrudge. He connects best with those a little worse for wear.

And I think it's because he's so unpretentious. He's comfortable in his own skin without an ounce of vanity or pride. He's most comfortable in a pair of shorts and flip flops. And he's not afraid to laugh and joke or tell it like he sees it. He's not afraid to ask questions or play devil's advocate either. In fact I remember more FHE than one in which my dad would strike up a heated discussion rather than a peaceful lesson and before long Mom was calling it quits and pulling out the ice cream to simmer things down.

Speaking of ice cream, it's possibly his favorite food. There's always a half gallon or two (or five) in the freezer at home.

Dad has always declared himself to be a "bum at heart." Indeed, the most endearing image I have of him is laying on his bed with a book propped up on his chest, a game on the TV, and himself fast asleep. But despite his declarations of laziness, he has always been a hard worker. All my growing up years he would go into work extra early (six or so--unless it was one of the days he went to play basketball in the church gym at six), work for for 8-10 hours without a lunch break, and come home by three or four so he could go to all our different tennis matches, soccer games, or baseball games. He didn't like to miss any of them.

Recently my dad has taken a much more demanding job with a long commute. He spends long days working even though I know he would rather be at home relaxing. Since moving out of the house, he has always taken advantage of his commutes to call us kids and his mom. I love those random and unexpected phone calls from Dad. We ramble about the latest books we've read, what's going on in the news, and how my kids are doing.

Speaking of books, Dad is an avid reader. I distinctly remember sitting down next to the bookshelf in my parents room and leafing through my dad's science fiction books on the bottom two shelves as a very young girl. I pulled off Enders Game and the rest was history. Ever since then my dad and I would read books "together" and discuss them. Usually this would mean Dad would read at his slow and steady pace--taking weeks or months on the book in question--and when he finished I would blow through it in a week or less and we'd discuss.


My dad is possibly the most frugal person I know. I think for most of his life, spending money has meant anxiety. He prefers to "shop around" before making even the most minor purchases. This usually means going to five or six stores to make sure he's getting the best price. I remember always buying our tennis shoes out of the clearance bin at Big 5, and he didn't eat lunch for years because he didn't want to spend the money.

But over the years he's softened a bit to my mom's ease with spending money. He knows it's important to my mom that he give her gifts on important holidays like Christmas and Birthdays. While this was the ultimate stress inducer in him for years, he's figured out how much it means to her, and now goes all out. I think I admire his ability to compromise as much as his frugality.

I love watching my dad as a grandpa. He has a way with little ones that I didn't see or notice growing up. His calm nature has a way of attracting them to him. I love watching him take the kids on drives in his refurbished old Porsche. I love hearing him whistle his bird call for them as he sits them comfortably on his lap.

I'm not quite sure I've done my dad enough justice with this post. I can hear his laugh and see his easy banter with a friend or relative in my mind's eye. I have countless memories of him sitting at the end of the dinner table growing up, standing to speak in sacrament meetings across our stake, working in the yard on a Saturday morning, sitting in his lawn chair at baseball games.  I'm not sure I've quite put them all into words, but I hope the sentiment has come across.

I love you, Dad. Happy Birthday!