The other night, I was trying to come up with a story to sum up my Dad’s life. All I could think about was this picture of me about three years old riding on top of Dad’s shoulders. He would do that all the time, just pick one of us kids up and throw us up there.

And that’s what Dad did for people. He just quietly, without complaining, helped carry people through their lives -- his wife, his kids, his customers -- even strangers.

Dad never made a lot of money. He didn’t have any degrees or titles before or after his name. There will never be a building named after him.

But he did what he was supposed to do -- loved his wife, raised his kids, went to church, volunteered in the community. And he did little things he didn’t have to do -- like fixing your weed-eater or putting together your kid’s new bike -- without any expectation of getting something in return.

When he was a teenager, he looked a little like Elvis, and he had a little of the Elvis rebellion in him -- enough so to sneak out of the Catholic boys school at Subiaco Abbey and drive over to Fort Smith to check out the girls. And enough to make him want to join the Navy and see the world.

He signed on for duty, and eventually, he ended up on a swift boat in Vietnam. When they asked him to recover his friends’ bodies out of the river, he decided to move on.

But he never complained, and never even talked about it, unless you asked him to.

And then he met Mom -- he was checking her out in church when he should have been praying. They went for coffee -- saw Dr. Zhivago at the movies -- and when mom cuddled on his shoulder coming back from one of Uncle Johnny’s basketball games -- that night dad decided to marry Mom.

A couple times in his life, Dad made the sort of leap a lot of people would be scared to make. He moved from Lebanon, Missouri to Guthrie Center, Iowa and began work as a traveling appliance repairman for Sears.

He’d travel long days all over Iowa -- even into other states. When he came home, mom would have a tall glass of ice tea ready. He’d sit down, put his feet up on the footstool, while Michele and Beth raced to unlace and remove his shoes -- Dad smiling and listening to how their day went.

But he had a dream of owning a business, and even though Sears didn’t usually allow its repairmen to do this, he and Mom wrote letters until they allowed them to buy the Sears Catalog Store in Creston.

He had to borrow a lot of money to do this. He even had to take a second job for awhile, staying up most of the night to ferry railroad workers from the train to their hotel rooms, sleeping every night in his van.

It didn’t help that he’d tell customers when they should really buy the cheaper version of something or when he would send them to another store if it had a better deal. Jeff remembers one time getting angry with Dad because he fixed a weed-eater for one of his customers for free -- even though she had bought the weed-eater at Wal-Mart. Dad just shrugged.

Now, you can’t talk about Dad without talking about his stories. He had a lot of them. And they were often long. And sometimes even true.

Like the one about hunting polar bears in Alaska -- from a helicopter. Or one where he’s a kid, and a hobo comes up to Grandma’s door asking for food. She helps him, and he opens up his jacket and hands her a wad of cash. Except Grandma couldn’t remember this happening.

Here’s a classic exchange, courtesy of my sister Nancy, between Mom and Dad:

Karon: Oh, Mick -- is that true?!!
Mickey: Karon!
Karon: Mickey, I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Mickey: Now Karon, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

But that didn’t matter. He’d tell his stories to us, to customers, to strangers he’d meet in the doctor’s office or a restaurant or a rest stop on the Interstate.

You have to understand that Dad was a very emotional person who tried very hard not to show his feelings. Most of the time, he kept himself in check -- but there’s this other picture of him, looking at the slideshow put together for him and Mom for their 40th wedding anniversary last year -- his eyes welled up with tears. By the way, that 40th anniversary party was Dad’s idea. He was a sentimental guy.

No doubt about it -- he loved his kids. He and Michele had a special bond. She feels things as deeply as he does. She even took on Mickey as her nickname.

Beth says that since he’s retired, he stayed for long visits and they worked side by side putting up drywall together. He loved nothing better than riding bikes with his grandkids or throwing them in the pool.

He got to know Nancy and her husband Jeff -- “the Deuce” -- much better when Mom was sick and they lived with her. She remembers him sitting at their kitchen island and talking about his life, his hopes and fears. In opening up to her, he became more than a parent -- he became a friend.

Jeff remembers him making us pancakes for breakfast -- listening to Crestland radio, singing along to the country songs in a high-pitched falsetto.

Mom remembers Dad always being there for her -- driving her to every doctor’s appointment and radiation session during her recent struggle with breast cancer.

And when she wanted to become involved in political issues -- and started questioning the powers-that-be in Union County on issues such as hog confinements -- he had his doubts. He worried their business might get hurt.

But he supported her anyway. And every once in a while, she’d overhear him talking about politics with someone else -- and using some of the same points she did.

He was proud of her, and of his children. He was so proud that all his five kids earned the college degrees he and mom never could. They sacrificed greatly to send us to Catholic school and college -- sometimes, very expensive colleges -- but he never complained. In fact, Dad and Mom would give everything they had to us -- money and time -- and if you pushed it back, they’d hide cash in your suitcase. You’d be unpacking your socks and out a $20 bill.

He did so much for us kids -- one of the things I thought of after Dad died was, Who are we going to call when something breaks?

He was expert in washers and dryers, dishwashers, hot water heaters, and refrigerators too. When he’d come to visit us kids, he’d always have some home improvement project in mind. Just this year he built two grandiose bookshelves in Beth’s playroom. He fixed the lights at icemaker at Jeff’s place. At our house, he built benches with room to store toys underneath.

And not just for us -- he’s probably fixed or installed some washer, refrigerator or bike for half the people of Union County.

He did it like it was the most natural thing in the world. He did it even when recently when he wasn’t feeling well, when the littlest thing could make him winded.

That’s part of why Dad’s death seems so unfair. He would have turned 65 this week. He’s a guy that worked long hours, but enjoyed simple pastimes. He loved nothing better to be out on a boat, fishing with his Dad or his friends. Or watching a cooking show or some really awful sit-com with one of his kids and grandkids.

He loved nothing better than hugging one of his grandkids -- or carrying them around in his arms, or on his shoulders -- just like he carried us when we were kids.

Every time now when I pick up my son or my daughter and lift them onto my shoulders, I’ll think of Dad.

-- Scott Finn