From time to time, I’ll catch a little bit of Harry Chapin’s classic song, “Cat’s in the Cradle.”

The cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon. “When you coming home, dad,” “I don’t know when,” but we’ll get together then. We’re gonna have a good time then.

The chorus makes me nostalgic, having listened to the song extensively on the radio when I was a kid riding shotgun in Mom’s little Chevrolet S10. It also makes me somber, as I relate to it quite a bit.

I generally don’t cry, I just get teary-eyed. It’s been nearly two years since my dad received and answered the divine phone call from the Good Lord.

It was sudden, as dad’s eyes rolled backward when he was taking his wife — step-mom — out for supper. He was about to pull out the driveway, before stopping and turning off the car.

I remember receiving the distressed phone call from Gwenda, dropping everything that I was doing and making the painful drive to Fort Dodge. I remember that I had lost my voice at that time. Arguing with the security guard at the hospital and reading him the Riot Act.

That was one of the hardest weeks of my life. Tears flowed amongst family members, and there were many hugs shared between family, relatives and friends.

I somehow managed to remain calm and collected, always believing that — sometime later — Dad and I would laugh about it. Until I realized that he wasn’t going to pull through.

I wrote the obituary without flinching. Maybe because I felt like I could do a way better job than a funeral home, as I was one of the few people that knew Dad inside and out.

I took the week off of work, being the Editor of The Graphic-Advocate in Lake City, and my presence — or lack thereof — was felt in the community. The South Central Calhoun cross country team shared a video expressing their thoughts and prayers, while I received messages from friends from near and far who provided me with condolences.

The Messenger wrote a piece on Dad during that time, who had done so much for the community in his own interesting way.

I do recall that, after the visitation, I showed up to the Titans’ playoff matchup against ACGC. There I was, standing atop of the stairs where the players and coaches climbed before heading out to the field.

To see those kids, who were trailing by 20 at halftime, light up when they saw me is a memory that I’ll always keep. They drove down the field and scored their first touchdown of the game, but saw their season come to an end.

There are mere flashes from the funeral service and burial.

After a year and a half of wrangling, a memorial now stands at his spot within Dayton’s marble orchard. From time to time, I drop by and visit with Dad and Grandpa — who is resting next to him.

I dream of Dad from time to time, as if he never left.

The last few years, I made time for Dad. Whenever he called, I dropped everything and set aside time for him.

The last crazy thing that we did together was driving out to Blackbird Bend to drop him off at his truck, and escort him back to Lake City. Prior to that, Dad would come over and binge “The Mandalorian” with me.

No matter how much work I had to do, I always set aside time for Dad.

It didn’t always used to be like that. Dad was gone on the weekends for most of my childhood, making ends meet by power washing and manning the sound board for live shows.

Because of his absences, our relationship was on the rocks quite a bit. Then again, and it could be a sign of maturity, but I don’t really look at my 18-year-old self or even my 12-year-old self quite fondly.

Adult me wouldn’t tolerate the younger me.

Over time, those bridges were slowly repaired — even when I lived a half of a country away in Amarillo. Those lyrics from “Cat’s in the Cradle” would surface from time to time, and I often joked with him about our comparison with that of the song over the phone.

He’d be driving home on a Sunday evening, and give me a phone call.

“Oh, I was just thinking about ya,” he’d tell me.

I miss those phone calls.

I was the best man at his second wedding, and our road trips — which were great when I was a kid — were some of the best memories that I could ask for. In 2010, the family had cashed in on a timeshare in San Antonio, which was made better because I rode along with Dad.

I still chuckle when I recall dad exclaiming, “wow, this is the biggest town that I have driven into,” when we entered the Alamo City for the first time.

We used the Labor Day Weekend in 2019 to escape to Wall Drug, Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse Memorial and Devil’s Tower, which was epic. See, the family and I went horseback riding in the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming back in the 90s and early aughts.

It wasn’t exactly hiking and going all “mountain man,” but it was fun to retrace those steps.

Dad always wanted to go back to northern Wyoming for old time’s sake, and we had plans to go. However, it wasn’t meant to be.

Dad wasn’t perfect, by any means. I was far from perfect, and hell, I’m far from perfect now.

We had our arguments and fights, but we made up with time and healing. Upon reflection, we didn’t know what to make of each other quite often. But with growing up, we overcame our differences and became best friends.

When Grandpa passed, we always ended our phone calls with “I love you” and we’d give each other “man hugs” before parting ways.

The both of us wanted to start a podcast, and build upon the discussions that we shared on our road trips about conspiracy theories, UFOs, Bigfoot and other things that strike others as odd or extraordinary.

Do I wish that I could make up for all that lost time, though? Would I give anything to trade those weekends and stretches of absence for time spent together?

I don’t go on a day without thinking about it, and I don’t go on a day without missing Dad. Father’s Day will be one of those days, too.

To all of you young lions out there, spend time with your father or the person that you regard as your dad — especially on Sunday.

Cherish those times, and hold them close. Never let them go, as someday, you’ll get teary eyed listening to Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” — just as I do.

“When you coming home, son?” “I don’t know when.” But we’ll get together then, dad. We’re gonna have a good time then.