Lessons from My Father

by David Stalling

On Father's Day, I find myself thinking once again about my father—the greatest man I have ever known.

I was incredibly fortunate to have him as my dad. He shaped not only my childhood, but the person I became. The values I hold most dear—honesty, honor, integrity, courage, kindness, humility, compassion, and respect for others—came largely from him. He didn't preach those values. He lived them every day.

Growing up along the shores of Long Island Sound in Connecticut, I spent countless days outdoors with my father. He took me fishing for striped bass, bluefish, weakfish, and mackerel. He taught me to keep only what I would eat, to fish fairly and honestly, and to respect the creatures I pursued.

Long before conservation became a popular topic, he understood that we have a responsibility to care for the natural world.

He taught me about horseshoe crabs, shorebirds, jellyfish, scallops, mussels, trees, wildflowers, rivers, forests, and mountains.

He took me camping, backpacking, and trout fishing. He got me involved in Boy Scouts and taught me how to identify trees and plants. More importantly, he taught me to pay attention—to truly see the world around me.

Because of him, I learned to love wild places. Because of him, I learned that the outdoors is not simply somewhere we go; it is something we belong to. And because of him, I learned that when you love something, you should be willing to stand up and defend it.

The passions that have guided much of my life began with him.

Some of my favorite memories are the simplest ones.

I remember sitting with him on a log beside the Housatonic River on a crisp autumn afternoon. Golden beech leaves rustled softly in the breeze.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“Leaves?” I replied.

“Nope,” he said with that wonderful grin of his—the grin that always came with a twinkle in his eye, a lift of his eyebrows, and the unmistakable signal that he was about to say something he found amusing.

“It's a rustling grouse.”

I groaned the way teenagers do when their fathers tell bad jokes.

Then, almost unbelievably, a real ruffed grouse suddenly burst from the woods and landed nearby.

We laughed until our sides hurt.

Things like that seemed to happen around my dad.

He always seemed to spot things before anyone else. He found the biggest fish, noticed the diving terns first, saw deer hidden deep in the woods, hawks soaring overhead, and trout rising in distant currents. He could find a four-leaf clover whenever you challenged him to.

Once, while visiting me in Montana, I was carefully scanning a meadow for moose and told him to keep an eye out because they occasionally appeared there. Without missing a beat, he calmly pointed and said,

“Like that one right there?”

Sure enough, a huge bull moose stood hidden among the willows, completely invisible to me.

That was my dad.

He moved through life with an extraordinary awareness and appreciation for the world around him. He noticed things. He appreciated things. He found joy in things that most people walked right past.

But what made him truly remarkable was not his ability to find fish or wildlife. It was his character.

He had every reason to become bitter. He grew up during the Great Depression. He never knew his biological mother. His childhood was not easy. He left high school to join the Marine Corps and fought in some of the bloodiest battles of the Pacific during World War II, including Iwo Jima, Saipan, Tinian, and Okinawa. He never had much money.

Yet despite everything he endured, he became the one of the happiest, most patient, most honest, most loving, and most gracious man I have ever known.

Everyone admired him.

Everywhere we went, he seemed to run into people who knew him, and every one of them spoke highly of him. People trusted him. They respected him. They loved him.

So did I.

As I grew older, I realized that my father was teaching me lessons that had little to do with fishing or camping. He was teaching me how to live. And in the end, he taught me something even more profound.

He taught me how to die.

In the fall of 2003, as he was nearing the end of his life, I visited him often. Despite what he was facing, he remained remarkably calm, courageous, and concerned about everyone else. Sometimes he would look up at me, smile, and say,

“Don't be sad. I had a good life.”

And he truly did.

He lived with honor. He treated people well. He loved deeply. He laughed often. He appreciated every day he was given. He never complained about what life had denied him and remained grateful for what it had provided.

He faced death the same way he faced life—with grace, dignity, courage, and acceptance.

Not long before he died, I brought him several brilliant sugar maple leaves I had found. Their colors were especially bright that autumn. He looked at them and gave me that great big grin I will always remember.

It is a smile I still see today.

I think about him every day.
I miss him every day.

And every day, I remain grateful beyond words that I was lucky enough to call him my father.

Of all the gifts my dad gave me, the greatest was his example. He showed me what a good man looks like. He showed me what a father should be. And if I have done anything worthwhile in my life, much of the credit belongs to him.

The most valuable possessions I have are not things that can be bought, sold, lost, or taken away. They are the values and beliefs my father passed on to me: honesty, compassion, kindness, integrity, an unconditional love for my son, a passion for wildlife and wild places, and a deep desire to protect what I cherish.

These are priceless gifts. They have shaped my life, guided my decisions, and helped make me who I am. They are among the greatest inheritances a father can leave his child.

I intend to hold onto them with all I've got.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Thank you for everything.

I love you, and I always will.