Dear Dad,

Happy 61st birthday. Not today, but Tuesday. I can't imagine what is taking the Post Office so long with your beautiful handmade birthday card or why, year after year, it loses my card but faithfully delivers those from your other two daughters. Weird.

First, a confession. Patsy, your youngest, called me twice Tuesday evening to remind me to call you.

Second, I didn't actually send a card. Unless I somehow managed to get to the grocery store between Wednesday -- the day I wrote this column -- and Sunday -- the day it will publish. I doubt I did, but you never know. It will be fun to see, won't it?

Anyway, I know it's become the family joke to sit back and watch Kristy forget birthdays and anniversaries, and I wouldn't want to ruin the fun. (Oh, happy 39th anniversary, by the way, even if it's a month late. Tell Mom, too.)

But, I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me, even though it wasn't written by Hallmark.

Most of the best of me I inherited from you: The appreciation of a good joke, even if I'm the butt of it. Knowing the importance of school, education and doing good work for good work's sake. Putting family first and above all else.

And some of the worst of me came from you, too: My ability to curse in creative ways, especially in awkward situations. My impatience with people who talk big but never deliver. My temper. (I happen to love all those traits about the both of us, but they've gotten me into a heap of trouble now and then. You can relate.)

I remember helping you clear a pasture of rotting buildings that had likely been there 80 or more years. You gave me a crowbar and told me to yank out the rusty nails. I whined. It was no use. The nails just wouldn't budge, I complained.

I stood back and watched you tear the shed apart with your hands and feet, kicking loose entire walls and finishing the job with Herculean tugs. And cursing.

I was in college at the time, but even then I knew that I had the toughest dad in the world.

I remember "helping" you dig fence posts and string barbed wire. When building corrals, I took extra care to hold the board exactly where it should be, waiting for you to notice. "Look at Kris," you'd say, "hers is nice and flush."

I remember waiting for you to shut down the tractor as the sun set and come in for dinner. It wasn't your family's land, it was your wife's. But I remember you cutting the hay all the same, and after a full day of work.

Another time, I never wanted you to shut down the tractor. I don't remember what Mom said I did, but I knew you'd come to administer the punishment. In hindsight, I'm sure I deserved it.

Remember the blizzard of 1984? You went out looking for Grandpa's cows. They'd walked over the fences on four-foot snow drifts. Snow caked your coveralls and moustache, and when you walked in and collapsed in a chair, we three girls crowded at your feet, badgering you, asking if you'd found the cows, asking if you were OK.

At my high school volleyball games, your voice was louder than any other -- at least to me. You shouted "Come on, Kris" or "Hooya!" I acted embarrassed, but I always knew you and Mom were there. (On a side note: When you stood up in your black cowboy hat at War Memorial stadium whenever the song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" blasted over the loud speakers, I was totally embarrassed.)

Now, I love those surprising but rare moments when you talk about Vietnam and the men you met there. And meeting Mom while stationed at an airforce base near Moorcroft. And how you introduced yourself as "Xavier Gray" because you thought it sounded cool. As a young girl, I was shocked to discover that Carol is typically a woman's name. My dad, Carroll Gray, was the manliest man I knew.

As much as anything, I'm thankful for my ability to know love and give it, even if I don't say it as often as I should. I got that from you.

Or, maybe I am just forgetful. And maybe Hallmark could have said this better than I did. If that's true, I think you love me anyway.

So Happy Birthday, Dad, four days late.

You probably won't get a card after all, but know I love you and appreciate all that you have given me.

Except the moustache. That, I wished you had passed on to my sisters.