I went to my parents' house Sunday to cook breakfast for Father's Day.

Since the showers aren't on at the dropzone, where I stayed Saturday night, I was still covered in smoke and alcohol and filth from the night before. I knew my dad wouldn't want to see THAT for Father's Day, so I snuck into the house and showered upstairs before anyone woke up.

My dad found me in the kitchen in my robe and glasses with wet hair.

"Where in the hell did you come from?" he said.

Still, I think he enjoyed the shock of waking up to his youngest, safe and happy and all NOT SKYDIVING. The big stack of blueberry waffles, fruit salad and soysage didn't hurt either.

Later I helped him caulk some bricks on the house to keep "those dang yellow jackets" from building nests.

My 6'4" dad couldn't reach some spots even with a ladder. "Screw this," I said. "Where are my rock climbing shoes?"

The bricks provided some great holds as I channeled my old rock climbing team days -- minus the harness, safety ropes and belayer. I scurried up the side of the house and caulked everything easily, while my dad tried to hang onto the hem of my capri jeans.

"Go! Go! Go!" he shouted. "Ha ha, yellow jackets! Keep those dang suckers away!"

I think it was his best father's day ever.

My best part of the day happened just as I was about to leave the house for the dropzone. My mom, who has Alzheimer's, formed a clear, concise sentence and actually seemed to recognize me.

I gave her a kiss and hug as I moved for the door. She stumbled toward me -- much like a large toddler -- her arms outstretched.

"I loves you," she said.

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