My Dad’s Whistle

home insemination Kit

My dad was the kind of guy who could put two fingers in his mouth and release a whistle that could make the neighbors stop in their tracks. It was our family’s unmistakable “get your behinds home right now” call that echoed throughout the neighborhood come dinnertime. It was also the wake-up call on Saturday mornings, long before our teenage bodies were ready to face the day.

“Pancakes are ready!”

I loathed those words. I wasn’t a fan of pancakes, and I definitely didn’t enjoy dragging myself down the stairs behind my five equally moody brothers, all still half-asleep and smelling like they hadn’t washed their hair in a week.

“Hurry up, they’re gonna get cold,” Dad would bellow from the kitchen, even though we were just a few feet away. He’d wave his spatula around like it was a magic wand. “I’ve been up since 6:00 making this for you all. At least pretend to be awake. Show some respect.”

We would plop down at the table, letting out exaggerated sighs and scraping our chairs loudly against the floor.

• “Pass the orange juice.”
• “Leave some syrup for the rest of us!”
• “Why do you use so much butter?”
• “These pancakes are cold.”
• “Do you have to chew so loud?”
• “Kevin, wake up and lift your head off the table before Dad sees you.”

I’d meticulously cut my pancakes into perfect squares, shifting them around my plate. When Todd wasn’t paying attention, I’d sneak a handful and toss them onto his plate. We had struck a deal; he would return the favor with vegetables at dinner.

“Up and at ’em! That’s what I always say. Early bird gets the worm,” Dad would announce as he burst through the swinging door from the kitchen, balancing a mountain of steaming pancakes that could make Aunt Jemima do a little dance.

“Elbows off the table! Napkin belongs on your lap! Straighten up, chins up. A little class goes a long way.” He’d make his rounds, loading our plates with pancakes whether we wanted them or not, all of us silent.

“Beautiful day, lots to accomplish. Your chore lists are on the fridge as usual. No one leaves until those are done. Work before play, kids. That’s the key to success.”

And so it went, week after week, like clockwork with the changing seasons. We were raised in a home built on expectations. While it often led to friction between Dad and us kids, it also instilled a strong sense of responsibility and organization in our lives.

Dad, an electrical engineer, thrived on rules and precision. Growing up in his time, he embodied the classic “Dad” role. Emotions? Not for him.

He was a master of lectures, always ready with a speech on various topics—like why we shouldn’t jump on the beds or pull the banister when racing upstairs. There was a particularly passionate lecture about cleaning up after ourselves, especially concerning his tools, and a legendary one reserved for special occasions—like the time David decided to take the car out for a spin before he had his license. And heaven help us if Mom made dinner; we were going to appreciate it!

I still wonder what would’ve happened if he “had to turn around one more time” driving us all to Maine for vacation or “if he had to come up there” when we stayed up past bedtime giggling.

But the ultimate trick? His whistle. A loud, commanding three-note signal that sliced through the air, sending six pairs of legs racing home faster than we dashed after the ice cream truck. He believed a family that shares meals together leads a meaningful life.

Just yesterday, I was in the bleachers at my son’s high school volleyball game, watching them battle it out point by point. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad put his fingers to his lips and inhale deeply.

“Dad, please don’t. You’ll embarrass him,” I chuckled, tugging at his arm.

“You think so?” he asked, his eyes softening with a touch of resignation.

“Yes! He doesn’t know about the whistle.”

“Probably for the best. It’s harder for me now with these new teeth.”

“Wait, you’re still whistling? Here in Sun Lakes?” I asked, noticing his gaze drift away, likely lost in memories.

“Sometimes,” he said. “When the silence gets to be too much, I like to imagine it’s still magic, and you all will come running home for dinner.”

For more on family dynamics and parenting, check out our other post on home insemination. And if you’re interested in fertility resources, Make a Mom is a great source for boosting male fertility. For those exploring options, Johns Hopkins Fertility Center offers excellent information on IVF and related services.

In summary, my father’s memorable whistle was more than just a call for dinner; it symbolized family unity and discipline. His approach to parenting instilled values that shaped us, and even now, in moments of nostalgia, he still longs for those simple times when we would race home together.