In the early 1980s I attended a one-week newspaper advertising sales training program in Rochester, New York. I was an invited guest of Gannett Newspapers at a seminar conducted by Rochester Institute of Technology.

The western-most delegate, I enjoyed getting acquainted with the other delegates, most of whom were from New England, the Northeastern U.S. and Canada.

One evening several of us enjoyed dinner (supper where I come from) together in the hotel restaurant. The discussion turned to our families back home and Sam, a brawny Italian from a city near Boston, talked about Sunday dinners at his parents’ home.

He described the bountiful and delicious Italian meals his mother cooked and how his father greeted each of his kids with a hug and a kiss when they arrived for dinner.

Trying not to sound too much like an alien I asked, “Your dad kissed you and your brothers?”

“Sure,” Sam replied. “My father is big on showing affection.”

I chalked this up to regional differences. My family, with northern European roots, was not big on showing affection. This was particularly true with the men in our family.

As I thought about this later in the evening, I realized I could not remember my father ever kissing me. I imagine he may have done so when I was a baby, but I could not remember it.

When we were children our mother always listened to our bedtime prayers and gave us a good night kiss, but Dad simply said, “Good night.”

We did get some physical contact from our father when we had a chest cold. With his big, calloused hand, Dad rubbed Vicks VapoRub onto our chests.

At that time, we were not a hugging family. Looking back, I think maybe we were emotionally constipated.

My relationship with my father weakened as I grew older. I was an avid reader and began understanding some things I sensed Dad felt I shouldn’t be understanding yet. I had grown taller than my father by the time I was 14, and I think that may have also made him uncomfortable.

In his book, “Dare to Discipline,” James Dobson wrote about fences to protect your children and the need to move those fences outward as children grow older and more responsible. Dad was slow to expand my fence.

To make things worse I had a big mouth and Dad had a quick temper. That’s an unhealthy combination.

After I left home, things grew better between us but we were never as close as we should have been.

Fast forward to 1990. Dad’s Parkinson’s disease necessitated specialized care, and one of my brothers and I had to move Dad to a nursing home. That was more difficult than when we buried Dad less than three years later.

On Father’s Day 1992, my wife and I drove to Webster City to visit Dad in the nursing home. Cindy visited with her parents while I visited my father.

Dementia was setting in and on a previous visit, Dad did not recognize me. I wondered if he would know me on this occasion.

I entered the hallway leading to Dad’s room and found him sitting in his wheelchair in the hallway.

“Hello, Pop!” I said. Dad turned, looked at me and stretched out his arms for a hug. I was 44 years old, and for the first time in my memory got a hug from my father.

Nearly two months later Dad passed away late on a Friday night. I had spent a few days with my mother and siblings at the hospital and felt the need to go home 125 miles away earlier that evening. We all suspected the time was near. Uncharacteristically, I hugged my three brothers when I left that evening. Dad’s hug two months earlier seemed to make the move acceptable.

After Dad’s funeral, that Northern European emotional coolness began to warm. Our mother became a first-class hugger and her large brood responded in kind.

I have broken the cycle with my son and daughter. When I say good-bye to my kids, I hug them and tell them I love them. I don’t want them to wait until a few weeks before I die to be hugged by their father.

I think Sam’s Italian father back in Massachusetts had the right idea.

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2026 by Huisman Communications.