My dad

Kenneth Peter Hatlen March 1, 1928-October 15, 1977. My dad was 49 years old when he was killed in a traffic accident with my 13 year old brother (Kenneth Robert Hatlen). I was 22 at the time.
My dad was a huge man who worked hard physically and had hard hands, shoulders that were thick and always had a twinkle in his eye. He was the kind of man who taught me that men with a gruff exterior were usually just putting on a show. He had his faults, but I want to dwell here on the things that matter to me.
As a little girl, I remember him always making me feel like I was special to him. I don't remember him saying "I love you" but I knew he did love me and I always felt like he made an effort to be my dad and I felt like he looked at me like I mattered to him. He would wake up some occasional Saturdays and say "It's a Melora day." I heard it more than once because I remember thinking, in my childish brain, that that was my nickname 'Melora-day'. I went hunting with him, fishing with him, followed him around outside, helped him diagnose mechanical problems with the lawnmower, tried to imitate his bird calls and whistles, went on trips to Edmonton to pick up supplies for his painting business and went to eat at the Legion near Fort Road and 118 Ave for lunch more than once. He always told me stories and tried to get me to tell round-robin stories with him on the drives back.
I remember when I told him I bought tickets to a football game and did he want to go? He was so excited and off we went to Edmonton. The Esks weren't doing so good, it was raining at Clark Stadium and we left before the end of the 4th quarter and Dad suggested we go out for supper. We went to a nice steak house on the corner of 142 St. and Stony Plain Road and the first thing Dad did was pick up all the 'peripheral' silverware and stick it in the extra wine glass and hand it to the waiter and said, "won't be needing these." That's the way he was-no frills.
I was allowed to use his van while the family went on a vacation to Spain and I wasn't supposed to, but I made a trip to Red Deer with it. On the way back, near Leduc, the motor went in it. I had to hitchhike home, borrow $1200.00, hitchhike back to Leduc and get the van home before they got home! My dad was upset, shocked that I'd taken care of it, shocked that I went where I wasn't supposed to go with it and, I didn't know until after he died that he kept that receipt for the new motor on the wall in his 'paint shop' for over 4 years! I don't know why exactly, but there again, what I did mattered to him.
I just miss him so much. He would always put his arm around me and I loved his hands. I was driving the other day with my hands on the steering wheel and I was suddenly struck with the thought of my dad's big, strong hands and I missed him with an aching like it was yesterday. I never even got to say good-bye.