My dad is a quiet man.
Dry humor. Steady presence. The kind of calm that makes you feel like things will sort themselves out if you just give them a minute.
He drove trucks for more than thirty-eight years. Long stretches of road. Long hours. A kind of work most people never think about.
The last time I sat in his truck as a kid, I was six or seven.
Back then it felt like an adventure.
I did not see the fatigue.
I did not see the responsibility.
I just knew he was the one driving, and that felt safe.
Recently, I went with him on one of his last shifts.
I wish I had done it sooner, and more than once.
Being older changes the way you notice things.
I saw the effort in every movement.
The patience.
The routine he carried so naturally it was easy to miss.
And I saw how hard he worked for us, in ways I never understood as a kid.
What surprised me most was the way people greeted him.
Families. Farmers. Dogs. Regular stops.
They knew him.
They cared about him.
They trusted him.
He had built genuine connections with so many people through simple everyday moments.
It said more about his character than anything he ever claimed for himself.
He taught me a lot, without trying to.
How to be honest even when it is uncomfortable.
How to be dependable.
How to get through the hard days without asking for praise.
How to persevere.
How to help others and accept help when it is needed.
He never made speeches about any of it.
But I learned by watching him work.
Watching him show up.
Watching him keep going long after he was tired.
He is proud of me.
I feel it, even if he keeps it simple.
And I know I am loved.
We show our care in small ways.
Shared beers.
Short trips.
Quiet visits.
Text messages that do not say much but mean a lot.
Sitting beside each other, not across.
Now he is retiring.
Parking the truck for good.
Letting the road continue on without him.
I do not think he knows how much of myself comes from him.
The steadiness.
The sense of duty.
The instinct to take care of people quietly.
The ability to keep moving forward even when things are heavy.
He earned his rest.
And the things he taught me will stay with me for the rest of my life.
I carry his grit with me.
I always have.
Ghosts of the Navigator 