Over the past month, I've written about my Grandfather, my Mom, and Jerry Coleman, three of my heroes.  My dad has been more than a hero to me over the years.  He will never fully appreciate what I've learned from him based on the example he has set, not because I haven't told him, but because one of the lessons that I've learned from him is humility.  He worked so hard at a job that took him out of town and away from his family, but we never heard him complain and through his willingness to go the extra mile, my sister and I both developed a fierce work ethic.  Would I have liked to have him around more often while I was growing up?  Of course. But he had a job that in its day was very important. 

My dad (Ray) met my Mom while he was a Marine stationed in Hawaii When I was born he was finishing up his degree in journalism at Arizona State, and on my first birthday we moved to San Diego so that he could start a job at the San Diego Union, the morning paper in America's Finest City.  He covered a variety of subjects but seemed to land on politics quite a bit, making frequent trips to Sacramento to cover state politics (including Jerry Brown's first stint in office between 1975 and 1983).  

1983 saw us move to Vienna, Virginia so that my Dad could work for the Copley News service covering the 1984 Presidential election.  Prior to covering the actual election he went to Cuba covering Jesse Jackson's meeting with Fidel Castro in September, then in October he was selected to provide coverage of Operation Urgent Fury, more commonly known as the Invasion of Grenada.  A picture of my Dad in a cowboy hat covering Ronald Reagan hangs proudly on the wall of the house.  

We moved back to San Diego in 1985 and he held several editor jobs with the paper, Political Editor, City Editor, Metro Editor, and then when the Republican Convention came to San Diego he was the Convention Editor.  It was one of the few times I was able to help him at work, during the last day I worked as a film runner - using my build and legs to slither through the crowd and grab film from the stationed photographers.  It was very cool to see my Dad in his element, with his friends and co-workers.  

​But it's not just the work ethic that we've learned from my Dad.  I probably would not have had the love for and ability to play baseball and softball if it weren't for me going to his Sunday games and watching the Union's team - The Sacred Cows.  I'd pay attention, most of the time anyways, and as I got older I would occasionally play catcher when they were short people.  After we got back from Virginia and I had grown a bit, I played some outfield with the Cows, not my best spot but then again it was just fun to play with my Dad.  I remember the camaraderie, between my Dad and Marc Sauer, Carl Cannon, George Condon, Greg Gross, George Flynn, John Standefer.  Some were names I'd occasionally see on a byline, but they were also Sunday morning regulars.  I learned a lot about being part of a team from them, without them ever knowing it.  

​My Dad also included me in one of his yearly rituals starting my senior year of high school.  He took me along on his steelhead fishing trip to the Klamath river in Northern California with his friends Carl Cannon and Pat Dillon.  Pat had gone dove hunting with us before, but this was my first fishing trip with the adults.  The trip up was pretty much Pat and Carl psyching me out, telling me that you average one strike every eighty-some hours on the river and I shouldn't be disappointed if I didn't get so much as a bite.  I could see my Dad watching them tell me, hoping I would catch one so that he'd have bragging rights.  Sure enough, twenty minutes into our first drift, I hooked a steelhead, and landed the twelve pounder fifteen minutes later.  Before he could even brag about it, I hooked and landed a ten pounder within the next hour.  At lunch, he gave them back some good-natured ribbing.  The next day was quiet, Carl caught one at lunch, then late in the day on our last drift, I hooked one.  I tried to get my Dad to take the rod from me so that he could land it, but he refused it and gruffly told me to bring it in.  I landed it and we called it a day.  Pat wrote an article in the San Jose Mercury News about the trip, appearently the other adults asked my dad why he didn't take it, and he said he'd have to work up to it.  

​We're both much older now, and our fishing trips are farther apart, especially since I live in Flagstaff now.  We still have the memories of the great trips to East Cape, San Quintin and Bay of LA, and the quail and dove hunting trips outside Casa Grande.  We've learned a lot from each other I think, and I do try and emulate him in more ways than he will ever realize.  He's always been a hero, a role model, a confidant, and most important, a really good friend.  That's what makes him more than a father to me, it makes him my Dad.