This hasn’t been a great day for me.

Father’s Day is a fun-filled, happy day for two categories of people; those who have fathers, and those who are fathers. Sadly, I find that this year, for the first time in a decade, I don’t fall into either category. So, I spent most of the day wishing that the reminders weren’t everywhere, and that the holiday would simply pass unheeded into the gutter of history.

I awoke this morning and found that my first thoughts were of my own father. Clarence Kennith Johnson was a father in every sense of the word. He was at once the sternest leader, the frankest critic, and the best friend I have ever had. From my earliest memories, my father was larger than life, and not because of his 6’4″ stature. If in my lifetime I manage to muster even a tenth of his strength, wisdom, confidence, and compassion, I will consider myself more than fortunate.

It’s been 22 years now, but not a day goes by that I don’t miss Dad. He was taken away so young that he never got to know me, really, not the real me. He got to know the undisciplined, recalcitrant teenager who knew exactly what life was all about and what he wanted from it. Then he knew the impulsive young adult I became in my next phase. All the while, he’d prepared me with all the tools I needed. He’d imparted to me all the knowledge that it would take to graduate from my larval stage and become a man. He loved me, and he knew — not hoped, KNEW — that I’d make him proud someday. Then he was gone.

My father, while in high school, played in the band. He played a Sousaphone. He always encouraged me to pursue music, but was especially happy that I chose choir rather than band. “What are you going to do with a Sousaphone later in life?”, he’d ask. “You’ll always have your voice. It’s the best instrument there is.” He was a great motivator.

Because of that, I can call on a few old memories for comfort. Once, during my junior year in high school, I auditioned to participate in an all-state honors chorus. Hundreds of students from every school in Virginia auditioned, and I was one of only 50 who made the cut. My father was ecstatic, and even more so when I was selected for a solo. I will never forget how he beamed, after the concert. I still have a photo that my mother took of the two of us, standing in front of the Virginia Beach Pavilion where the concert was held. His smile was incandescent. I’d made him proud, and that’s the kind of moment I can treasure.

I also remember the first radio program I ever did. It was a half-hour tribute to an artist whose music I knew well at the time. I planned it so carefully, timing everything down to the second, nailing every intro, measuring every word, and doing the best a 15-year-old could do to impress a former disc jockey like my dad. Apparently I did all right, because he pronounced it the most impressive thing I’d ever done, and thereafter encouraged me to pursue my interest in radio.

These are great moments, but there are so many other milestones I wish I could have shared with my father. I sure wish I’d had his wisdom to guide me when I made some of my most appalling mistakes. I wish I’d had his encouragement at the times when I felt hopeless and inadequate. I wish I’d had his discipline, what Dan Fogelberg so eloquently called “a thundering, velvet hand”, at the times when I was a total screwup. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear “Leader of the Band” without getting teary-eyed. It hits too close to home.

I didn’t appreciate my father as much as I should have, then. I didn’t know what I had until it was gone. Today, here and now, I would sell my soul for five more minutes with my father. I’d give my right arm just to hear his voice again. They say that time heals all wounds, but two decades of it have done nothing to fix this one. All I can do is try to live the best life I can, and hope he’d be proud.

My one true shame is that I’ve never been a real father. By that, I mean that my genetic material has never had its way with anyone else’s genetic material to produce an offspring that’s got half my genes and, by definition, a quarter of my father’s. I’m 42 years old now. It’s a bit late in the game to start a family anew, and I’m facing the fact that there may never be another Johnson to continue my father’s line. That’s an awfully bitter pill to swallow.

Ten years ago I married Yvette. Before I knew it, without even an interview or a background check, I’d been hired as stepdad of a six-year-old girl. I had no training for the job, and it didn’t help that the last two men in that position had been fired for gross incompetence. I approached the role with a mixture of trepidation and ambition, and within a few short years, I’d managed to prove that I had no bloody clue what I was doing. The result was a teenager whose indifference to me was interrupted only by periods of abject, passionate hatred. Before I could make that situation worse, if a worse situation is imaginable, my marriage also fell apart and my services as stepdad were no longer required.

Two days ago, I got a call from my ex-wife-to-be, informing me that this same teenager, the one who despised me, has requested to be brought to see me on Father’s Day so she could bring me a gift and a card. I was asked to give her a chance. While apprehensive, I agreed that we could meet. I was to get a call on Saturday to arrange the time and place. That call did not come.

I heard from them this afternoon. According to Yvette, young Alexis — who’d had the idea to brighten my day — had instead decided to go to the mall with her boyfriend. She’d asked her mother to simply get my address so she could mail me something instead. Fine, I said. I hung up the phone, sat down, and mused glumly about the reason there isn’t a Stepdad’s Day.

I did gain an honourary daughter today. You know who you are, and thanks for cheering me up a bit.

While getting groceries at the local warehouse club, I spotted a DVD of one of my favorite TV shows from my teen years. “Quincy, M.E.” was the original show to which “Law & Order”, “CSI”, and all the other forensic investigation shows owe their popularity. The show starred Jack Klugman as Quincy (like Columbo, we never learn his first name) and Robert Ito as his faithful assistant, Sam Fujiyama. It’s a great show, and it’s not been shown on TV for more than a decade. Some things can still make me happy, even on Father’s Day.