He writes emails in bullet points.
He has not given up hope that I will someday learn to decently slug him in the arm.
He will send me a card with his message written on a sticky note so that I can send the same card to someone else.
He once was stopped at work by neighborhood boys who had found an injured bird. They didn't know what Mr. Burnison's job title was, but they were pretty sure he could handle this case.
He's an economic developer. But he helped with the bird.
He taught me to love reading the newspaper.
He preaches with the passion of a Southern minister on the evils of maintaining a credit card balance.
He fields questions from restaurant patrons who are wondering when the lasagna will be refilled in the pasta bar.
His voice projects so well that said patrons think he must be the manager of the place.
He won't live in a place where your door locks behind you.
He walked his girls to school.
He respects the difference between dress bibs and regular bib overalls.
He is a stranger to no one. Especially in South Dakota.
His fatherly lecture series could make us a million: "It's the Inner Beauty that counts," "I played football with a Lux bottle full of sand and I liked it," and "Women put themselves at an economic disadvantage by insisting on wearing non-functional shoes and dresses that zip down the back" are a few gems.
He claims to be the quietest in his family.
He can answer with some authority on every question I ask him.
He will ride his bike alongside when I want to go on a late-night run.
He really, really cares.
He shakes his head and says "My daughter..." when I decide that due north is whichever direction I'm facing.
He's my dad. And I love him.
