My father, Franklin Simas Oliveria, wasn't a big shot, by the world's standards -- in fact, he wasn't a big man physically. Mebbe 5-6, with a rock-solid paunch and John Henry-sized forearms. He was a first-generation Portuguese-American (as was my mother), who often told me that he could make a living with his brawn but I'd have to make a living with my brain. He milked cows by hand, hauled hay and was respected in the Portuguese community of central California. Above all, he loved his family and enjoyed a good laugh. His legacy is six siblings who remain close and have solid marriages, most now stretching into the third and fourth decades and grandchildren who are becoming doctors, college professors, geologists, EMTs, etc. I'm now the same age he was when he was killed in a vehicle accident. I hope I'm half the man.

With Father's Day this weekend, feel free to post your thoughts about father in the comments section. You can find Kerri Thoreson's terrific column this week about her father, the late Ron Rankin, here.

Feedback: My father... I can't think of one positive thing to say about him. My kids should consider themselves very lucky that, at some point, I woke up and realized that I must learn from my own father and work hard to be the opposite of him. So far, they're reaping great benefits. And so am I -- Family Phil.

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