On Father's Day, essayist Cari Carlson remembers her dad: from the early moments of safety and comfort he provided to her, through the role reversal in his later years when she took on the mantle of caregiver. (Note: The audio includes an extended version of this essay.) In my childhood home we could have set our clocks by the sound of my Dad’s chickadee-like whistle, one long note and one short. That’s how he announced he was home every weekday at 5:30 when he came in the back door, walked down the hall to the kitchen, and kissed my Mom on the cheek. “What’s for dinner?” he’d ask. When I heard ice tinkle, I knew food would be on the table in exactly thirty minutes. Like many men of his generation, he liked a drink before dinner but his was special, a Manhattan made with bourbon, sweet vermouth, real maple syrup, and a dash of spring water from Leelanau County in Michigan. Before we sat down to eat, he took me into the half-bathroom by the kitchen. One at a time he took my hands, held
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