Tomorrow is Father’s Day. Unfortunately, my father is not here to celebrate it. He passed away in 1992, succumbing to the effects of a stroke and a lifetime of smoking. He left us too soon.

Fathers should revel in their day—taking nothing away from mothers. For 364 days a year, they toil away at work and at home. They are jacks of all trades; at least, my Dad was.

He grew up in small town Georgia, one of a family of more than 10 children during the Great Depression. He served in the Army during World War II; his unit landed on Omaha Beach during the D-Day invasion. He suffered hearing loss and other injuries, but managed to come home.

He didn’t have a formal education, but managed to establish himself as a successful car salesman. He met my Mother in Mobile, Alabama. Shortly thereafter, they returned to Georgia and set up their home in Macon.

He taught me a great many things, from hunting and fishing, to taking care of a car—basically, taking care of everything you have, to love of country. I followed his lead after college and joined the Air Force. I was fortunate to become a computer programmer, not a sergeant in a rifle company.

He always asked me to “bring him a high number”—his way of asking me to do my best in school. If I brought home all A’s, I was rewarded with a dollar.

I owe everything I have achieved to him. His example, his encouragement, his steadfast beliefs are guideposts I have tried to follow all my life. When I made a mistake, I can trace it back to a failure to follow his teachings. I miss him every day.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.