06/17/2026
from Designing Moves President Christine Smart:
When the Quiet Man Starts Talking: Finding My Dad Again
There's a kind of father the world doesn't make enough noise about. The one who left before sunrise and came home after dark. The one who worked twelve-hour days, six days a week, not because he loved being away, but because he loved his family more than he loved being comfortable. He didn't say it often. He showed it in callused hands and a paycheck that kept the lights on, food on the table, and a roof over everyone's heads.
That was my Dad.
He came home to a meal already made, laundry already folded, a house already cleaned — and in that season of life, that was simply how things worked. Mom held down one kind of fort. Dad held down another. It was a partnership built on roles, on rhythm, on quiet understanding. And it worked.
Then Dementia and Alzheimer's walked through the door, and nothing has been the same since.
But before I get there, let me tell you who this man really was — because a few sentences won't do it justice, and he deserves every one of them.
My Dad did not stop. For anything. Kidney stones that would send most men to the floor? He pushed through. Once, cutting a frozen hog water line, he accidentally stabbed himself — and kept going. Well into his seventies, he was still throwing bales of hay like they weighed nothing, like age was simply a suggestion he hadn't gotten around to following. He was the kind of man who didn't complain, didn't slow down, and didn't ask anyone to carry what he believed was his to carry.
He was also, for several years running, a million dollar tractor salesman. In an era when that meant something, he was out there building relationships with farmers, earning their trust, and delivering on his word. He was good at it because he understood the land and the people who worked it. Then the farm crisis hit in the 1980s, and the industry he'd built his career in buckled beneath him along with thousands of others. That wasn't weakness — that was circumstance. And he adapted, the same way he adapted to everything else life threw at him. Quietly. Without a lot of fuss. And in the way that only hindsight can reveal, that crisis led Mom and Dad to something they had always dreamed of — moving to the farm they have called home for the last 37 years, and finally living out the dream they had always carried: owning a farm of their own.
That was my Dad.
When Dementia and Alzheimer’s enter a family, it doesn't just steal memories — it reshuffles everything. The man who never needed to ask for help now needs a little more help. The woman who kept the household running becomes someone you have to visit in the nursing home, love differently, grieve while she's still here. The tables turn in ways you never could have prepared for.
And somehow, in the middle of all that grief, something unexpected happened, beyond finding out he can wash his clothes and make a sandwich.
My Dad and I started talking.
Not the way we used to — the quick check-ins, the nods across the dinner table or the short exchanges when I was home visiting. Really talking. Every single day now, there's a conversation, and those conversations have quietly rebuilt something between us that I didn't even know was missing.
I hope you find some time to reconnect with your quiet hardworking Dad this year!
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
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