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Charles Edward “Chuck” Mayes was born on January 18, 1934, at the Presidio of Monterey, California. His mother, married often, was at the time married to a man named George Mayes, a soldier stationed in California.

Chuck Mayes is my Father.

My Dad never talked about knowing George Mayes. In fact, throughout his life, he never was quite certain if George was his Father. He never talked much about his childhood at all and most of what I know about it came from my Uncle George, my Dad’s younger brother.

Dad was one of nine children -- two girls and 7 boys. From what I understand about his childhood, it was largely focused on surviving challenging circumstances. I’m not really clear about where he lived during most of his youth but I do know he spent time with a grandfather in Webster, Massachusetts. Aside from that, when Dad talked about where he grew up, it was more about the living circumstances -- foster homes and living with family members -- than a particular geographic location. At age 14, he was sent to live with his mother’s brother in Wisconsin.

Two months and two days after turning 18 years old, Dad joined the US Air Force. Given what I understand of his upbringing, he was statistically more likely to have ended up in prison. Yet Dad spent the next twenty years of his life devoted to the Air Force, serving both in the Korean war and in Viet Nam. Dad married my Mom in 1955 while Dad was stationed in Tucson, Arizona. They had two children: my sister Malinda in 1956 and me in 1961. They were married for more than 40 years.

Dad picked up his GED somewhere along the way and toward the end of his military career, he began taking college courses. By the time he retired from the Air Force in 1972, he decided to become a teacher, achieving that goal in 1976.

When I think of my Dad, I largely think of the things we did together. Playing catch, throwing the ball across the street, pausing for cars to pass as the neighbors arrived home from work. I remember camping as a family and him teaching me how to safely handle a firearm while teaching me to hunt. We spent a lot of time fishing, some of my fondest memories of time with Dad.

Being a military man, Dad was often away in exotic places like the Philippines and Boise, Idaho. As a child growing up in northern California, all the places Dad went seemed equally distant and exotic. So I remember many times when Dad wasn’t there.

Dad taught for nearly twenty years after the Air Force. He had a particular passion for, and fondness of, special needs children. Given his challenging childhood, that makes sense to me. He always fought for those who couldn’t always fight for themselves.

Most of my memories of Dad are of him being larger than life. He was gregarious, intense, funny (though he could not tell a joke to save his life), and his laugh brings a smile to my face every time I think of it.

Dad never met a stranger. He would strike up conversations with anyone, on any subject, at any time. Again, I smile knowing that this particular apple did not fall far from that tree.

Like many of us, Dad has his demons. It’s understandable, given his upbringing. He had flaws -- also like all of us. While he may not have always been proud of the things my sister and I did, he was always proud to be our Father.

By quick count there are seventeen human beings that owe their existence to my Dad. My sister and I each had two children. My daughter has a son and my sister’s kids each have five. These are fully formed, flawed, living human beings that would have not otherwise existed had it not been for him. There are also another four who, while not blood-related, knew “Poppi” and whose lives were shaped by him.

In addition to the twenty-one of us, there are literally hundreds more (maybe thousands) whose lives were directly touched by Dad. In addition to his students, there were the kids he coached in Little League and others with whom he came in contact with. All who knew him remembered him, most fondly.

My memories of Dad are less movie reel and more snapshots. I guess that’s really how memories are. Trying to acknowledge a man's life in a few words is like trying to describe the ocean. I can tell you about some of its features but you can't truly know what it's like if you don't experience it. And no matter how many times I've visited, I will never know what it's like to actually be the ocean.

I will never be able to know what it was like to be my Father. Mostly, however, I remember a man who loved being a father and who did everything he knew to do to make his children’s lives better than the one he’d been given. And he did that.

Dad departed this mortal coil on September 4, 1996. He was far too young -- just 62-years old. There's not a week that goes by when I don't think of him and wish for just one more conversation. Instead what I have are the memories of a man without whom I would have not gotten to experience this adventure we call life.

We all have Fathers. Some are noble and inspirational. Some are so broken and damaged that all they can do is inflict more damage on their children.

But most Dads are somewhere in the middle, a mix of positive and negative traits. Just like all of us. Most Dads simply do what they believe is best for their children, while attempting to navigate their own life challenges.

My Dad was no different than the rest except in one key way:

This one was mine. And he’ll never be replaced. Or forgotten.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.