My family has a lot of people: grandparents, parents, young brother and I. I love all people but they are the most precious father.

My father is Loc, this year he is more than forty years old. Age is most evident on the father's hair. How many worries, struggling with time to make black hair day time point of silver. Years of hard work have made the announcement darken the skin for the sun. Everyone told me that for the first time will mistakenly published less than 40 because dad looked very tre. He is always about me. My dad's face though sunburn but still see the youthful. Eyes bright with dark eyebrows ram. Eyes often sparkled seemed resilient but very quiet when you have a nose am. He has a straight along coconut nurse. My father's mouth is fresh smile, good talking. He is very good.

At home, he is often plant tree. His trees grow as blowing. In the evening, he is often read newspapers. He always watch televison for an hour. Then, he guides us learning. He is always help neighbors. With colleagues, he is a good man. So, pepole always loved him.

We all loved him. Merit of dad is a Thai Son mountain. So, in each business, I wish he returns with family soon.

My father is a lovely father of the world. He is my real hero, my best friend, my inspiration in my life. He is the person who helps me a lot in getting prepared for the school, getting rise of the bed and having my homework done well. He always cares for me and calls my mom in the afternoon just to know that whether I arrive home from school at right time or not. He is very healthy, fit, happy, peaceful and punctual person. He always goes to the office on time and also teaches us to go to school at right time. He teaches us the value of time in life and says that if one wastes his/her time, time ruins his/her life.

He is a very nice person and helps my neighbors in their difficult time. He always loves, cares and respects my mom and never quarrels with her. He always supports her and sometimes, he helps in the kitchen during her illness. He respects and loves my grandparents and teaches us to take care of them. He tells us that old people are like God for us, we should care, love and respect them. We should never avoid the old in their difficult time as this time comes in everyone’s life once. He tells us that we should always help needy people of any age group all through the life according to our status. He takes 15 minutes of us every day to tell us about the ethics and other good habits.

n this essay, I am going to tell you about my father whom I am very proud of.

It is often said that there are no perfect fathers in the world. However, I do not agree with this statement. My dad is ideal. I believe that he is special; his deeds and behavior are also special. My father always speaks and dresses in an appropriate manner. Without doubt, he is a person I deeply admire, and the thought that I am his daughter makes me really happy. I would like to describe my father in detail so that you can understand why my father is so special for me.

When you first meet my father, you may think that he is conservative since he adores wearing formal clothes. However, you should not judge the person by his appearance. If you knew my dad for a few years, you would notice that he likes to wear different clothes, including elegant suits, knitted sweaters with casual jeans, and even T-shirts with shorts. In my opinion, such diversity in wardrobe shows his many-sided, rich inner world. I like the way my father dresses because it illustrates his lifestyle. The thing that I like most is that all the outfits really fit him. Therefore, I believe that my father has a really good taster

Now, when you know how my father looks like, it is time to describe his moves since they can tell a lot about his individuality. My father does not like to walk slowly; he always moves fast. It means that he wants to do everything he has planned in a timely manner. My dad does not waste his precious time in vain. Undoubtedly, he loves his active lifestyle. What is more, my father always teaches me to enjoy every moment of our life. He reasonably explains the benefits of doing everything with delight and diligence. In addition, due to his active life position, my dad effortlessly copes with any hardship on his way.

I would like to mention that the way my father speaks is fascinating. Everyone who communicates with him can say that his speeches are clear and reasonable. My father is always interested in the subject he is talking about. Without doubt, he is a perfect interlocutor. Also, one can notice that his face expresses different emotions when he is talking. When my father is content with the issue, there is a genuine smile on his face. When he disagrees with something, he knits his eyebrows. Therefore, while speaking with him, you can guess what my father feels toward a subject being discussed.

My father never argues over the issues he knows nothing about. When listening to him, you can learn some interesting and useful information. My father reads a lot of books. He is interested in the most debatable current issues and always wants to know more. When talking with others, he tries to support his thoughts with facts to be completely objective. He believes that false statements can do harm to a person. I am happy that my dad has unbiased opinions, and he never tries to impose them on others. Obviously, my father is a very smart man. He likes to share his experience as well as learn the experiences of people surrounding him.

What is more, my father always gives me good advice when I ask for it. He can calm me when there is a need to do so. When I feel bad, he finds proper words to support me. I greatly appreciate such moments. I am really happy that my father cares about my family and me. What is more, he always gives me a helping hand and teaches to help others. He understands that he is an example I want to follow.

Even though my father is very active, he does not like to show his feelings and emotions to the public. Thus, when we go out, my dad tries to be serious and behaves in an appropriate way. He says that every man should act like a man, not a monkey. When we are at home, my father acts more freely. He likes to tell us jokes and we laugh at them together. I feel that my father loves me very much even though he does not tell me about it every day. However, he does not need to repeat it again and again. Such things are obvious without any words. I am grateful to my father for his sincerity and tender attitude to me.

This is the way I see my dad. I suppose one can say that I exaggerate because there are no perfect people in the world. However, my father is a real role model for me. I would like to have all those good features that he has. I would like my children to perceive me the same way I perceive my father. I appreciate his kindness, love, and belief in me. I wish everyone could have such close relations with their fathers as I have with mine.

The first thing I ever wrote that I was truly proud of was a letter to my father. I wrote it to him on Father’s Day. I can’t remember how old I was, maybe 17? It’s all so nebulous, that period of my life. What I remember is how moved I was writing my thanks to him and how he responded to that letter. He came to me, tears in his eyes, letter in his hand, and gave me a big hug and thanked me.

I remember him looking at me a little incredulously that day, like he couldn’t believe what I’d written. Not the content, which I think he already knew, but the way I expressed it. Hell, it surprised even me. He let my stepmom read the letter, and she came to me with tears in her eyes. I already knew that words were powerful conduits through which we can convey meaning and emotion — I just never knew I had that ability.

I give my mom most of the credit for my love of literature, but my dad was always encouraging me and appreciating my stories. I shared an account of a near-death experience on my sailboat with him, and he raved for weeks and months and years about how much he loved my telling of that adventure. He has encouraged me from the beginning. I look up to my father — have always thought of him as a real-life superhero — and so writing became a way to make him proud.

My dad was my best friend for most of my childhood. I knew this early on and celebrated it and bragged about it. How many other kids considered their father their best friend? I didn’t know many. But I would get up at the crack of dawn during the summer months to go farming with him. I would sit on his lap and steer his pickup truck. I would dip into his tobacco when he wasn’t looking. I would lean out the truck window and throw up soon after. I slept on the floor of the bathroom while he showered, back when I was five or six years old. I remember it like it was yesterday. He would hold his jeans by the waist, jump up in the air, and shove both feet through at the same time, all before he hit the ground. My dad could fly.

I fell in love with my wife Amber while talking about my dad. We were at dinner. Amber and I had just met that morning, had spent the day together out on a boat I was captaining at the time. The couple that owned the boat were sitting with us on the patio of this restaurant, and Amber was doing her psychologist trick of asking pointed questions and forcing us to answer them in turn. She asked who our hero was, and when it was my turn to respond, I started talking about my father. I got choked up. Amber reached under the table and squeezed my hand. She told me about her father. We fell in love.

It’s weird to be so close to my dad, to consider him my best friend even today, and realize that most of my books are about losing a father. My parents got divorced when I was eight or nine years old. My dad moved into a house down the street, and so began a life lived between two homes. A life of every-other-weekends. Often it was every weekend. We spent a lot of time together. It wasn’t like he was off on another planet, but you would never know that looking over my body of work.

The first book I ever wrote was about a girl named Molly who lost her dad. She spends four entire novels trying to find him, to be reunited with him. Juliette’s strained and distant relationship with her father is a central theme in Wool. The final scene of that book was written fairly early in the process — I think while writing part 2 of Wool. All of that plot and adventure culminates in what she decides to do on the final page. And then there’s Sand, where a father’s disappearance tears a family apart, where his absence looms larger than the night sky.

I don’t think any of this is an accident. I love my dad. I missed him. I think I spend a lot of time writing about how much I missed him. We didn’t have to be dysfunctional for that to motivate my art. We just were who we were.

One of my fondest childhood memories I have of my dad was during this freak snowstorm in Monroe, North Carolina. My dad knew people wouldn’t drive carefully enough with the roads covered in snow. So he threw a chain into the back of his pickup, grabbed two pairs of work gloves, bundled me up, and off we went, driving aimlessly around town. Sure enough, we came across cars in ditches, the owners stranded. This was before cell phones. Way before. Dad would pull up and tell these people that he’d have them out “in a jiffy.”

He’d let me out, and the two of us would spin the locks on the front tires to put the truck in four-wheel-drive. I was so proud that I knew how to do this. I was probably ten or twelve years old. I’d tug on those too-big gloves and wave him back as he put the truck in reverse and eased down into the ditch to line up with the front of the stricken car. He’d hand me the chain, and I’d dive down under the bumper, looking for something solid to wrap it around. I felt like a real man under there, with the grease and the mud, studying the hidden bits of machinery that make cars move. Dad would inch forward until the chain was tight; the truck would lurch and growl; but we always got the vehicles back on the road. My dad could do anything.

But it was what he did next that taught me my biggest lesson — it’s the thing that makes me strive to be like him every single day. The owners of these cars would fish a few bills out of their wallets, sometimes every bit of what they had in there, and try to pay my dad. And he always refused. Waved them off. Threw that chain back in the bed of the truck with a clack and rattle, knocked the snow off my jacket, told me to get back in and to mind the mud on my boots, and then we were off again, looking for someone else in trouble, not a care of our own between us.

I don’t thank my father enough for inspiring me to be a better person. I write about him in all of my books. Always missing. Always distant. But that wasn’t how he lived. He was always there and still is. I guess even with all that time together, it was never enough. And that’s what I write about.

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