Weekend Talker: What did you learn from your dad?

My dad taught me how to cartwheel, ride a bike, put a worm on a hook, dig in my heels on downhill trails to keep from tumbling. He taught me to clean gutters, to stain wood, to use a drill press. 

I am the oldest of three girls, and have always felt I was a bit of a stand-in for the son he didn't have. He taught me to fly fish in a rainstorm. We always flew together on family trips. 

We bumped heads (sometimes in spectacular fashion—I was an awesome teenager) but at the end of it all, I always knew he loved me. 

How? Because he was there when I needed him. 

When I'd had a particularly rough day in high school, he'd take me out after dinner to a blues bar in the middle of nowhere. He'd have a beer, and I'd have lemonade and turtle cheesecake. We'd listen to the house band play. 

Sometimes we'd talk; other times we'd just sit and listen. And after a few hours—way past my bedtime—we'd head home. I slid around a bit on the smooth leather seats as we drove the rural roads back to the house, listening to how he pushed the engine just a little bit before shifting it to the next gear.

There's another thing he taught me: how to drive a stick shift.