I’ve probably written 15 blogs about my mom—who I aptly named “The Bevinator” because of her take no prisoners mentality. On the flipside, I’ve only written a couple stories about my dad over the years, which is a shame. He was the quiet reserve to Mom’s over-the-top personality. Ever patient and ever pensive, Dad is the calm in anyone’s storm. And he deserves equal billing.

His unexpected medical emergency earlier in the week made me wax nostalgic about what a great father he is. I was reminded why I need to appreciate his fortitude, patience and inner strength. Even in my God-awful teen angst years, I only remember him yelling at me once. And, boy, did I deserve it, for blatantly being rude to a salesperson trying to help Dad.

My earliest memory of Dad was of him getting ready for work every morning. Cue the smell of Brute and Brylecreem. Cue my fascination watching him tie his necktie in less than four seconds. In my über-formative younger years, Dad would always spend five or ten minutes each morning with me hunkered down in the kitchen pantry. It was my go-to place when I needed quiet reprieve. Yes, even as a four-year old — I sometimes needed quite reprieve. Don’t judge.

Nestled alongside the cereal and cans of soup, Dad had rigged up a kid-friendly record player. Most mornings he’d put on a “word of the day” album for me. It was a quick little vocabulary lesson before I traipsed off to pre-school or kindergarten. At the time, I thought all kids learned a new word as they ate their Cap’n Crunch.

The announcer on the record would mention the word, followed by its pronunciation, the definition and then use the word several ways in different sentences. At five-years old, I was a sponge — ready to soak up everything. I would then attempt to unleash words like “poignant” and “circumspect” in casual conversation.

A couple times, there would be bonus words. One day the announcer doled out “taciturn”. It’s an adjective used to describe someone who’s quiet and/or says very little. That was quickly followed up with the antonym, “loquacious.” I distinctly remember realizing that Dad was taciturn and I was, well, the exact opposite. His quietness remains endearing and charming. My Chatty Cathy-ness remains, well, the exact opposite.

Without my Dad I would have never turned into such a raging wordsmith. I had the vocabulary of a literary savant before I could even tie my shoes. To this day, whenever I hear someone execute the perfect word in a sentence, I smile.

Who knew my passion would be stringing words together for a living? Apparently my dad did. He gave me that gift, and for that I will always be blessed and eternally grateful.