My father and I didn’t have a lot in common and that fact began to show up in our relationship when I was about 12 years old.

The age labeled “pre-teen” is difficult for the pre-teen and his/her parent. In my case, it began a time of being many things my father wasn’t.

Please don’t misunderstand; my father was a good, hard-working, God-fearing man. He worked hard, brought home his paycheck every week and loved our mother.

What I was becoming, however, was something Dad wasn’t. Being the oldest of his six children, I came to realize those differences created some discomfort for him.

The initial sign of difference was my mouth. I had a big one and began challenging my father on a variety of subjects. The first and only time I heard my father swear was an evening when I was 13 years old. We disagreed about something and I mouthed off to him. Dad exclaimed, “I am so damn sick and tired of your big mouth.”

Hearing my father cuss was scary. I was toast.

Dad was a devout Christian. I loved Jesus, too, but didn’t feel the call to be in church every time the lights were on like he did. Dad believed everything the preacher said. I didn’t. I had questions, lots of questions (and opinions) about church and faith-related matters and I wasn’t reticent in sharing them. That was a burr under my father’s saddle.

Dad was uncomfortable talking with his sons about sex.

A few times when I was helping my father sweep up at the end of the day at the feed mill where he worked, he did tell me about some of the shocking cautionary films about venereal disease he had seen while training for service in the Army. At age 15 I wanted to assure my father that at the rate his country bumpkin son was going, VD was of no concern. Instead, I just muttered, “Wow!”

As a farm boy from northern Iowa who had seen at least some of the world at the end of World War II, I think my father was puzzled by my eclectic interests, none of which coincided with his. I enjoyed and read about electronics, photography, politics and other unrelated subjects. I was a bookworm. A teenage nerd.

At school I enjoyed drama, competitive speech and student government. In 1964 I became active in the Young Democrats and campaigned for LBJ. If such were available at that time, I suspect my father would have had me take a DNA test to determine my parentage.

Dad and I didn’t see eye to eye on community size. In my very early teens we moved from a community of 1,200 to a town of about 200. Meanwhile, my cousin Cheryl lived in a Des Moines suburb and I coveted all the amenities at her disposal. When I was an adult my wife and I moved to Sioux City and enjoyed life in a metro area of nearly 150,000.

Fast forward to the mid-1980s and my parents’ big four-bedroom house was becoming a burden. We suggested they consider moving to a smaller home in their 8,000 population nearby county seat town. Dad indicated he didn’t want to live in a city. With some encouragement and assistance they eventually moved back to the town of 1,200.

When Dad’s health dictated a move to a nursing home it was my brother, Dave, and I who were tasked to do the deed. Dad, of course, resisted the idea but on the morning of the move he displayed a sense of acceptance that surprised me.

As I helped Dad shave that morning he began to cry. I asked what was wrong and he simply replied, “I’m so lucky to have kids who love me.”

And there it was: a moment when my father and I were in complete agreement. We saw that matter in the same way. His kids, including his first born, truly did love their father.

While physically resembling my father, my personality is much more like that of my mother. Yet my life reflects important things I learned from my dad — integrity, faithfulness to my wife and children, love of a conversation (even with a total stranger), the joy of a simple meat and potatoes meal, and a relationship with Jesus.

Maybe my father and I had more in common than I thought.

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2025 by Huisman Communications.