My father was a world-class whistler – the best I’ve ever known.

He had a piercing whistle that called us kids in to dinner at twilight and a lilting whistle when he was in the garden and around the house.

He tried to teach me how to do the piercing whistle – how to arrange my lips, teeth and tongue, but I did not get it despite hours practicing.  It seemed such a worthy thing to learn.

Dad and I really didn’t talk too much about my life plans or for that matter any serious subjects.  I tried to engage him in some discussions, but he just wouldn’t bite – always looking a little uncomfortable.

Now I believe that my father communicated with me and taught me through his work ethic and his natural-born ability to build, grow and repair things – not to mention his whistling gift.

I watched him mix cement, build fences, lay tile, raise chickens — he once saved me from a rooster attack — dig a cesspool and plant a beautiful garden.

In later years, when I asked him how he managed to have such a lovely yard and garden, this was his advice: “You dig a hole, stick the plant in that hole, and fill that same hole with dirt again.”

He had to drop out of school after the eighth grade to work on his family’s ranch in the San Joaquin Valley of California.  Although the Valley is known as the fruit basket of the world, my grandparents’ fig orchard was a dismal failure.  It was the wrong crop for the wrong place at the wrong time.

I’d like to think Dad was able to whistle for pleasure while he worked on that ranch and that it gave him some measure of joy.

On Father’s Day, last year, our minister said to the congregation: “If you think your father was harsh, unloving, or non-communicative, think about whether or not you had a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food on the table.”

He should have added “… and whether you ever heard him whistling.”

Now I’m hearing whistling no matter where I go!

I’m positive it’s Dad.

The End