Every father’s day I suffer from regrets—regrets because my father died when I was a child—regrets because I wish I’d known him better and more regrets because I certainly could have used his strong guidance when I was growing up.

My father died of a heart attack when I was 7-years-old and with every passing year my memories of him become more precious. I only wish I had more of those memories.

I remember how I used to pester Daddy on those rare afternoons when he’d come home early from work. I’d snuggle up to him and chatter endlessly, even though Mama told me, “Don’t bother your daddy. He’s trying to rest.”

On those rare afternoons, Daddy seemed to be listening to whatever nonsense I was spouting as he smoked his unfiltered Camel cigarettes. I must confess, though, I didn’t always listen to him, like the day he brought an old car home from his hardware store.

One of the doors—on the passenger’s side—was missing. Unaware of the danger, I begged Daddy to let me ride along in this mysterious old car.

“Okay, but you have to stay away from the open door,” Daddy cautioned.

I hopped in the car beside him, but soon managed to wiggle away and fall out as we rode up the hill in front of our house. I landed at the bottom of the hill, tousled and breathless.

When I glanced up, I saw Daddy, staring down at me. He didn’t scold. Instead, he said, “Are you all right?”

I felt half dead, but I wanted to impress Daddy by being tough. So I brushed myself off and answered, “Yes.”

“Okay, come on. Get in the car and let’s go,” he said.

Occasionally, Daddy would take us to a movie, but mostly he worked. He wanted to provide his family with the finer things in life: a huge brick home, a fishing pond, a swimming pool, tennis courts and our own merry-go-round. But I would have gladly traded it all for a few more years of sharing moments with him.

I’ve told my daughters their granddaddy was a great guy, but I wish they could have discovered his greatness on their own. I’ve told them of the time when I was a teenager, a strange man was wandering around our house. I called the police because Mother wasn’t home and I was afraid.

When the police questioned the man, he said he used to work for Daddy many years ago: “Whenever I needed work, Mr. Ira would always give me some.”

I’ve shared this story with my daughters because I wanted them to know their grandfather was a good man. I wanted them to know he tried to help others. I wanted them to know he was generous in giving of his time and money.

I only wish he’d had more time for me. And on Father’s Day I am again reminded of how much I miss him.

As I pull out of the driveway, I see P-Nut’s furry face watching me from the window. When I return, my little Shih Tzu is still at the window.

I travel quite a bit with my job. I’m now in Wimberley, TX and P-Nut is with me here. Unfortunately, I can’t take her to my appointments during the day and it’s too hot for her to wait in the car. So I tell her, “Stay in the air conditioning, P-Nut, and I’ll be back soon.”

I hope her entire day isn’t spent waiting for me to return and for that reason, I shouldn’t have watched “Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. It’s a Hallmark movie about Hachi, an Akita , a loyal companion to a professor, played by Richard Gere.

The professor finds an Akita puppy at a train station. He tries to locate the dog’s owner, but no one takes Hachi. So the professor brings him home to live with his family.

As Hachi grows up, he follows the professor to the train station every day and waits at the station for him to return in the evening. One day the professor has a heart attack and dies while teaching class.

Hachi waits and waits at the train station for his master to return. In fact, Hachi waits for years and years. Sadly, the dog dies waiting for his master to get off the train.

At the end of the movie, there’s a script telling us this is a true story about Hachiko, an Akita, who continued to return to the train station in the Shibuya ward of Tokyo where his master traveled to and from his job. An actual statue of Hachiko was erected at the station to celebrate his extreme loyalty.

Needless to say, I cried and felt sad for days. I wondered what P-Nut would do if anything happened to me, and then I remembered what she did the time my neighbor Joanne came to my door. “I want to show you the apple pie I made,” Joanne said. “Do you have a minute to walk with me to my house?”

I told P-Nut I’d be right back. Then I walked down the road with my neighbor. After I left, P-Nut ran upstairs to my husband. She barked and barked. He thought something horrible had happened. I didn’t tell him I was leaving, because I planned to return soon.

Larry followed the barking P-Nut to the front door. When he opened the door, P-Nut dashed out of sight. He had no idea that she was going to my neighbor’s house, where she ran up the stairs and pushed the door open.

My neighbor Joanne and I were shocked to see P-Nut in all of her doggy glory. Meanwhile, an upset Larry drove throughout the neighborhood looking for the wayward P-Nut.

When P-Nut and I got back home, Larry wasn’t there, but he eventually called my cell phone. “Sandy where are you?”

“I’m home,” I said.

“I can’t find P-Nut anywhere,” he said.

“She right here with me.”

“Oh, God, I thought we’d lost her.”

Later, he wondered why P-Nut has such separation anxiety.

I don’t know. Is it extreme loyalty? Is she like other dogs superior to most humans in that regard? I think so and I also think they deserve our love, kindness and loyalty in return, don’t you agree?

What can I say about a mother who paraded around Geneva, Alabama in colorful clothes, big hats, big jewelry, gossips be damned?What can I say about a mother whose many bracelets clanged as she played the piano at the Baptist church and sang louder than the choir?

What can I say about a mother who encouraged us to sing while she accompanied us on the piano, as if we were giving a grand performance for Liberace?

What can I say about a mother who took me and my sister out of school in the middle of the year, and drove from Alabama to New Mexico to see the Caverns? And during the summer, she stuck us in camp while she studied art.

What can I say about this oldest daughter of Norwegian immigrants who married a man—our daddy—because he promised to buy her a piano and teach her to drive? Or so she claimed. After Daddy died, she chose not to marry again.

What can I say about a mother who loved water and painted beautiful pictures of water, but never learned to swim? Yet, she encouraged us to become good swimmers.

What can I say about her? A mother who raised two daughters alone while preaching: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness. A stitch in time saves nine. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a woman healthy, wealthy and wise. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And you won’t like most of what you do every day, but if you do one thing you like, you should be happy.”

What can I say about a mother who drove us to New York City to see “My Fair Lady” on Broadway, the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, and in the middle of the night, when we arrived at the Brooklyn Bridge, said, “Wake up, girls, New York City”?

What can I say about such a woman?

Words fail me, because it isn’t easy to honor a mother who chronicled our lives in movies?

Yes, she filmed us, as if we were stars in a reality show, long before it became popular. Thank God, she took the time to do that, because Alice Kay and I were able to salvage some of that film.

When Mother suffered the first of many strokes and was in a coma, I was certain the end had come. But then, she opened her eyes and said, “I’m so proud of you.”

Unfortunately, Mother is no longer on this earth, but in looking back, I know she did her best in raising me, and when she said she was proud of me, her words meant more than my words can say.

Now I have two grown daughters and a granddaughter and I hope they know how proud I am of them.