Mike Cox It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was. — Anne Sexton.

Webb Jones was a gruff, ornery old man, even before he became old. Every boy who went out with one of his three daughters was terrified of him. He was a judge of probate, an iron–fisted supervisor at a foundry, and, some said, a member of the KKK.

When I called the Jones’ residence to speak to the youngest daughter, I would hang the phone up rather than try to stammer through a conversation with him. If Caller ID had been around in 1967, I never would have been allowed in their driveway.

After I became a frequent visitor, he would speak to me. He usually asked the same questions each time, but at least he talked. For two years, he called me Larry; I never found the courage to correct him.

After being married to his daughter for a couple of years and providing him with a grandson, he seemed to reluctantly acknowledge me. One Saturday afternoon, on a return trip from a picnic, he asked me to drive his car and his family back home. I had finally been accepted.

We fished together some, and he opened up a little. All three of his daughters accused me of making up stuff he said and did. Their father would never behave as I claimed.

He died a diseased old man, broken by illness and time. In his last years, he cried at almost everything. To me, it was a sad end to a man I respected immensely. To his girls, he became the softie they always thought he was.

My father, George Cox, to his final days, was a friendly, entertaining man. People, especially young men, were drawn to him like moths to a midnight light. When my brother and I told stories of his rages and his punishments, we were accused of exaggeration. He was too sweet a man to ever act like that. And he was.

The father was different from the man. Our father knew he wasn’t his children’s buddy. He was to prepare them for life. And he did, in a magnificent way. Being nicknamed Dr. Spankenstein made no difference to him; he had a responsibility to us.

I noticed more man and less father when my first son was born. My dad doted on his first grandchild with every fiber of himself. Things I would have been punished for were dismissed; “It’s okay, he’s just a baby,” or “Leave him alone, he isn’t hurting anything.”

Maybe the hardest part of being a father is knowing when to not be one. This is frustrating because our usefulness as a father usually goes away long before we do.

My dad would infuriate me by complementing me on an improving golf swing I knew wasn’t getting any better. I didn’t know whether he was just trying to be encouraging, or was seeing me with the prejudice of a dad. A child sees the father for a long time; this makes the man pretty hard to find.