TOONS ON-ICE Hockey Dad Tribute

Reflections of my Dad by Michael Fischer
Copyright January 1, 2009

October 1rst 2008 our lives were changed forever when our father
Robert Fischer passed away quietly in his sleep. Here is a little Tribute for
Dad's birthday. Slam a burger or some golf balls for Daddy Fish May 12th!

Robert "Fishman" Fischer
May 12th 1941 - October 1, 2008


In the immortal words of Dad, “Let’s eat!” Dad was beyond a magician, no one could make a double bacon cheeseburger disappear like pops. Dad pulled favors and advice out of his top hat his whole life and never expected anything in return but your appreciation. The love that Daddy Fish gave was no illusion, and his freindship and the humor he shared was without merit. Dad made bills and bullies disappear and he was the sun that enlightened our gray skies. Daddy Fish could make problems disappear and was also pro at making golf balls disappear off into the distance. If you nero associated people with a “Steak n’ Shake Steak Burger.” Some people in life are the pickles, some are tomato’s, and some the cheese. If the joy in life were considered the beef, Dad was levels above the meat and bun that holds it all together. Dad was the entire menu, restaurant and towering marquee sign out front to attract customers. Dad could light up a room like “Johnny Carson” and lucky us. Growing up, we never had to wait for 10:30 pm after news, sports and weather for raw, uncut, unedited comedy entertainment. “The Daddy Bob Show” was on all the time in our house. Daddy Fish will always be the star of the show around here and a hard act to follow.


I always admired Dad’s gold initial ring since I was a little boy. Dad wore it on his pinky finger since I can remember. The first time I tried it on my fingers were so small, I could fit two fingers thru it. Mom had it made especially for Dad when they were married with his initials “RF” set in tiny diamonds. Dad said to me “Son, when I die someday, this will be your ring.” I replied “Well, we don’t have to worry about that Dad, that is going to be in a very long time.”


When I was born in 1963, Dad had to sell his beloved 1956 Black Buick for $1000 to get me out of the hospital. So from that day on, he always jokingly called me his Black 56’ Buick. When it came to cars, Dad was the chief family mechanic and pro at getting dirty. I never knew there was such a fine art as washing and waxing a car like Dad. He would watch me wax my black Mustang in the garage and say “You remind me of me waxing my Buick.” Dad loved cars and the sound of his muffler so much, he never turned his stereo up. He loved to listen to his duel tail pipes rumble as he crusied up the street pretending he was “Steve McQueen” in the movie “Bullitt.” Dad was like an Army Recon Commander when it came to highways and road trips. Dad was Captain at knowing where to stop and eat. He could smell scrambled eggs and hash browns like a tactical K9 Unit and find a Waffle House without a map. And when it came to teen road side rescue, Dad always came to my aid. He’d race across town in a blizzard to help me if I was having car trouble. Dad would venture to my high school wielding a can of K-Mart De-icer Spray because I used my parking brake in an ice storm. He’d always say to me like “Ward Cleaver” yelling at “The Beaver.” “Now did you learn something?” Then he would leave me alone, and drive straight to “Dunkin Doughnuts” for hot coffee and two dozen of anything saturated with glaze, chocolate and custard. I wanted to become rich and successful one day and buy Dad a black 56’ Buick so he could shuttle his freezing cinnimon buns home in pure style. ( Pictured is Dad's Ford his first car )


Dad had many nicknames and monikers around our house. Silly things Mom would scribble on post it notes all over the kitchen stove. Dad liked to call himself “The Hulk” as he opened a giant jar of mayonnaise. I liked to call him “Daddy O’, or “Daddeeee!” His title was often joked about as “The Master” or “The King” as he would prepare dinner. Dad was truly the chef master in the kitchen. We really had no choice, we just got out of his way when he was hungry. Mom and Dad called each other “Charles” since they first married. To me, Dad’s main title was “The let me show you how to do that guy!” Dad could drive a nun batty with power tool advice. Dad was famous for trying to show me how to do something. It was his life’s mission. He loved to show me how to do things like hit a golf ball, change the oil in my car, or the proper way to make a sandwich so the mustard won’t fall off. Dad’s sandwiches were like “Dagwood’s” triple stacker ones, like in the Sunday Comic Strip “Blondie.” ( And that was after midnight. ) Dad grew up in the days of “The Little Rascals” and “American Bandstand.” If Dad wasn’t eating, he was playing golf or watching television. He loved music, golf, food and giving advice. To me growing up, Dad was the equivalent of “Andy Griffith” meets “Clint Eastwood” battling the back yard his 45 magnum weed whacker. If Dad accidentally hurt himself and it required a band aid, he never hesitated to share his insight and technical advice on “How NOT to do that again.”


My first animated memories of dad at home were bright and early at sunrise. Dad used to play the record “Otis Walker and The All Stars” every morning while he would get ready for work, and I would get ready for kindergarden. Our little house on 809 Lebon Dr. used to reek of bacon and eggs with the song “Shotgun” blasting on our old wooden solid state turntable console. On school nights when I was supposed to be in bed, I would sneak into the hallway and spy on Dad as he turned into “Elvis” playing his tenor saxophone in front of the living room wall mirror playing along to the Otis Walker record dancing like “Earth Wind and Fire.” I quickly discovered why all Dad’s music rehearsal’s were closed to the family and Mom would never buy me a Saxaphone.


The first year I played little league baseball, I was excited Dad was coaching so I wouldn’t have to sit on the bench. Dad called home that evening and informed me he had all the new baseball uniforms in his car and was on his way home. I couldn’t wait to get my uniform and pick my number. I wanted a large jersey number like 7. Dad said “Oh I got you covered, I already got your uniform and number set aside.” I was like “Cool!” That night dad came home from work with a trunk full of baseball equipment and a box full of baseball uniforms. I was all excited to get my uniform and see my number dad had chosen. He reached into a box in his car trunk and pulled out a clear bag and handed me my uniform. As I ripped open the bag to see my number, I kinda shrugged as I gazed a red stitched number One. It was not a number I wanted so I asked “Dad, why did you get me number One? I wanted a larger number!” He smiled and said in his real cool Bob tone of voice “Because your my number one son, and I wanted you to be number One.”


Becoming part of the movie dialogue was part of Dad’s M.O. He loved to call out the movie lines before they happen and as they would happen. Mom would always say “Bob, c’mon please.” I loved when Dad did that. One of my fondest childhood memories is watching the 1950’s Cowboy Western Hero Movie called “Shane” with Dad. Actor “Alan Ladd” plays “Shane.” A drifting gun slinger who rides into town and befriends a farm family and protects them from “Jack Palance” and his outlaw gang. Dad loved the bar fight scene so much he would have to make popcorn when it came on. Dad would smell up the whole house with oil and butter for a good saloon brawl. There is a final scene at the end of the movie where “Shane” is riding off on his horse into the sunset as the little boy who befriended him chases him yelling “Shane, please don’t go!” As the little boy would yell out “Shane, Shane!” So would Dad! Dad has been doing the Shane routine for as long as I remember. Now I am that little boy in the movie calling “Shane please don’t go!” Except Dad is the hero of this story riding his horse off into the sunset.


Late at night Dad became a goof ball and would go into his comedy routines. If someone said it was chilly outside, Dad went and got a spoon! When I think of Dad, two words come to mind,“Chili and silly.” Dad loved chili, and he loved to be silly. I was six years old the first time I realized dad was a comedian. In 1969, St. Louis had a heavy snow and ice storm, so Mom and Dad bundled me up and said “C’mon, we’re going sledding!” The entire neighborhood was night sledding in St. Cyr Park. It was freezing cold and it must have been below zero. The park hill was a solid sheet of ice. After a couple hours of sledding down the hill and almost crashing into a telephone pole with Mom. Dad yelling “Turn Wanda, turn the damn thing!” Then to our surprise, Dad informed everyone to clear a path, he was going down the hill on ice skates. ( Mind you this is thirty years before the Winter X Games on ESPN. ) So Pops in all his might, splendor, wool cap, and no padding laced up his size eleven Bobby Hull Hockey Skates and took off like a bat out of hell blazing down St. Cyr Hill like “Chevy Chase” in “National Lampoons Christmas Vacation”. To this day, I’ll never forget the wild eyed childhood visual of Dad flying by me and Mom down the hill like “Lou Costello On-Ice.” His arms flapping in circles to keep him from falling. His legs were going one way, and his arms were going to other. He screamed and yelled the whole way down the hill until he slid on his duff across the ice into the baseball fence at the bottom. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. We all ran to the bottom of the hill and there as poor Dad lie on his back laughing and moaning covered in snow from head to toe. I said “Daddy that was funny, do it again!” He looked up at me laughing out of breath and said “No son, daddy is done skating.


When I was a seven years old I used to like to talk Mom and Dad into staying up late on the weekends to watch a horror movie on televsion. It’s the only time Dracula and Frankenstein came on. Dad would say “O.K, it’s not a school night so you can stay up and watch Frank.” Then at the end of the movie when I was scared out of my mind. I’d say “O.K dad I’m ready to go to bed now.” And he’d say “O.K. son, goodnight.” I’d say, “Well, aren’t you going to go with me and tuck me into bed?” We had this big window in our kitchen that scared me because I always thought a monster was peering though it. I had to pass by the window going to my room, down the hallway around the corner to bed. He would reply “No, you wanted to stay up late and watch “The Curse of Dracula.” One late night Dad sneaked off into his closet and dressed up in a black cloak and hat like Vincent Price in “House of Wax” while I was watching the movie. I was sitting in the dark on the couch clung to my pillow enthralled in the movie. And then I heard mom in the background say “Oh Bob, c’mon no!” Next thing I look up and Dad is standing over me with his arms open wearing a dark cloak and hat just like the scene in the movie. He scared the living crap out of me! I slept in their bed that night. I loved when Dad took us to “North Shore Drive-In Movie Theater.” I’ll never forget as we drove up to the Drive-In gate in our old clunker Mercury, Dad would always say, “O.K. son, were going to play a game. Now duck down and hide in the back floor board under all the coats and I won’t have to pay for your admission.


Dad was there when I experienced virtually everything in life for the first time. My first breath, my first diaper, my first love, my first guitar and he bought me my first baseball glove. Dad took me to my first St. Louis Cardinals baseball game when I was seven. I always wanted to go to a Cards game and Dad never had the time or could afford to go. One summer my favorite player “Lou Brock” came into the department store downtown where Dad worked and Lou gave dad two tickets to a Cardinals home game against the Phillies. Dad couldn’t wait to come home from work and flash me those baseball tickets. So one sunny Saturday afternoon in 1970, Dad and I drove downtown to Busch Stadium and I experienced my first Cardinals Baseball game. I sat right behind the dug out with Dad, like all kids I eagerly wore my new Rawlings Baseball Glove in anticipation of catching a foul ball. Eventually a player just rolled a ball across the dug out to me as he headed off the field. Thinking back, being in Busch Stadium when I was a kid that day with Dad was like Heaven on Earth. Dad parted the Red Sea of seats like “Moses” to grab us a couple hot-dogs.


Dad took me to my first NHL St. Louis Blues Hockey Game in 1973. I was ten years old and was so excited to see my first “Blues” game and my favorite players like “Gary Unger.” The day of the game I injured my leg skating and could barely walk. I wanted to go to the game do or die so off we went to The Checkerdome. When we got to the Arena, we had to park a few blocks away. Because I was unable to walk, I’ll never forget Dad carrying me on his back piggy back across the bridge all the way to the arena. As we were walking to the Arena I remember hearing some lady walking behind us blabbing “That boy is a little old to be carried like a little kid.” So Dad would put me down, let me limp a couple feet and make it look good. The “St. Louis Blues vs. The Minnesota North Stars.” Dad and I ran into “Uncle Gene” by surprise after the game and he got us into the Blues Arena Club. It was the first time I ever sat at a bar with Dad and had a watered down Coke. Thirty years later, just a few years ago. I sold a large Hockey Christmas Card order to the “Vacaville North Stars in California.” Come to realize that the Leagues Director I spoke to is the great “Ernie Hicke.” Former NHL player for the “Minnesota North Stars” who played in that Blues game in 1973. My very first hockey game Dad took me to, and I still have my game program.


To understand Dad is to understand what kind of family he came from. Dad’s father aka. Grampa Boots was equal to “Archie Bunker” of the 70’s television show “All in The Family.” Their house looked the same except they had drums in the basement. Grampa was old school, hard nosed, and mean as a Tiger by nature. Grampa was very sweet and kind in his later years. Daddy Fish was sort of a tough camper because his Dad was tough as nails. Grandma Julie was golden. She was the only one who pulled me aside and said “Michael, you know Grandma’s not always to be around one day.” And then she would whack me and my Cousins Chris and Jackie over the head with her couch pillows. Grandma had an excellent back hand. Her home cooking would draw in musicians all over “The Rock Road” for sweet tea and homemade chili! Dad’s youngest brother my Uncle Phil had long hiar and played drums. He always had a rock band that would always rehearse and jam in Grandma’s basement. I loved going to Grandma’s house every weekend to visit because my house with Mom and Dad was my only level of reality everyday. My neighborhood, my school, my ballpark and the local store were my whole world growing up. Going to Grandma Fischer’s every Sunday was like this secret adventure into another world. We had the greatest get togethers growing up. Barbecues with uncles tossing horse shoes, holidays like you see in movies. One Christmas Eve blizzard in the early 1970’s, Uncle Dick’s International Scout had broke down in Kansas on his way to St. Louis for Christmas dinner. We were all at Grandma’s waiting for Dick to show up when he called with the bad news he was broke down on Christmas Eve in the middle of no where. I remember everyone huddled around in Grandma’s living room in snow covered coats like in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” saying “OK who’s going to go get Uncle Dick?” Dad was the first person along with his friend without hesitation who said “I’ll go!” So Dad took off in a massive snow storm and drove several hundred miles back and forth and go rescue Uncle Dick. All three arrived safely back one day and a half later just in time for Christmas dinner at Grandma’s.


When ever I look at a pair of shoes or pass by a shoe store I think of Dad. He worked selling shoes all of his life. I figure he’s sold enough shoes in his lifetime to outfit a small country. Dad worked hard to feed us and put a roof over our head. He pounded the sales floor for twelve hour shifts and he had juggling shoe boxes down to a fine art. When Mom would buy me a pair of shoes, Dad would always come up and shove his thumb down on my toe and say, “They’re to small” and go into his proper fitting routine. I think he sold shoes in the beginning because he could look at women's feet all day. If Dad ran across a hideous set of smelly stocking feet, he would always have to tell us over dinner when he got home. Dad selling shoes was the reason we moved to Nashville. When he began to travel as a sales rep for Viner, Sporto, and L.A. Gear. Our house used to look like a shoe store. When I was in high school, girls wanted to go out with me just because my Dad had a whole living room full of shoes. Dad was a superb salesman, he won salesman of the year in 1993 when he worked for Rafters Footwear. I’m sure he is somewhere in Heaven right now trying to sell a pair of loafers to Bob Hope.


The Bicentennial Summer of 1976, Dad changed jobs, hitched up the wagons and we moved from St. Louis to Nashville to began a new chapter of our lives in Tennessee. It’s really amazing how one life touches so many others. We have all made so many friends here in Nashville, it wouldn’t have been possible if Dad hadn’t changed jobs and moved us here to Music City. It was culture shock moving to a town famous for “Hee Haw” and people talking funny. I first discovered Dad’s character was expanding when we were driving on the highway to Nashville. He had already been traveling the south east for several months getting a head start on his good old boy’sim. Dad had a CB Radio installed in his car when they first came out. Dad’s CB handle was “The Shoe Peddler.” He could have been the poster child for the song “Convoy.” I was sitting in the back seat as Dad would get on the radio, put on a twangy voice and go into his CB routine. He’d say “Breaker breaker one nine, this is the Shoe Peddler, you got your ears on out there?” I said “Daddy why are you talking so funny?” I could detect Dad’s southern draw and we were not even over the Mason Dixon Line yet. I realized later on after living in the south that Dad developed his southern draw right away so he could sell shoes to the good ole boys in the little the southern towns. Dad also talked twangy on his CB radio so that the red neck truck drivers would answer him back.


Dad and I really bonded as party freinds the summer of 1978 after we moved to Nashville. That was the year that Dad got the great idea to buy a huge outboard ski boat from his friend in St. Louis. We live next to a lake and most everyone in our neighborhood had boats and water sports were the theme on our block. So Dad trucked back up to St. Louis and returned with this giant vessle on a trailor behind his silver Pontiac. It took up most of the entire garage. I would have to say some of the most fun I’ve had with Dad was buzzing around the lake on any given hot summer day. The cooler would be full food and drinks and Ted Nugent would be blasting on the 8 track tape player. Dad had a cranking stereo and we would drop anchor inbetween skiing, float and rock out. Dad would take all my friends out on the lake and never ask for gas money. He just had fun pulling us around the lake on skis. If you brought beer, you were allowed on board. We would ski all day until we dropped from the heat. One week Mom and Bobbie went to Florida with Grandma, and Me and Dad stayed home and hung out on the lake all week like “Gilligan” and “The Skipper” with “Foghat” cranked in the “S.S. Minnow.” We had such a great time bonding and hanging out. That was the first time Dad and I ever got drunk together. We were so sauced that day Dad could barely back the boat into the garage when we got home. We laughed so hard, we were falling down in the back yard in the grass. Much to Mom’s delight, Captain Dad sold his vessle and we spent our remaining summers barbecuing at home on dry land with the dogs.


Dad always whistled at the end of movies. I could be across the house with my door closed and my stereo up. Hear Dad whistle and know that his movie was over. Dad loved to eat off his favorite TV tray and watch television. Just ask the dogs. Dad was their avatar. He could squirt barbecue sauce in one hand, and flip channels and eat with the other. In our house, the sounds of cable news, cop car sirens, boxing ring bells, guns blazing, and golf balls being whacked off the tee wailed when Dad was home parked in front of the tube. One afternoon, he was hooked on a war movie as Mom came home from the store with a truck full of groceries. I yelled “Hey Dad, Mom’s home, are you going to help her carry in grocery’s?” Dad replied “Damn, they are just getting ready to kill this guy on TV!” Dad would only pass up helping Mom carry and her famous Chicken and Potatoes if a battle scene and buttered popcorn were preventing him from reaching the garage. Of course if “Jennifer The Watson’s Girl” was here to deliver a hot tub in her bathing suit, Dad would have been the first one at the front door.


When I lived in California, I always thought about Mom and Dad. Home is ground zero. It was comforting to know that I could call home and talk to Dad. It was one of Dad’s pipe dreams as a young teen to pack his car and drive to California across Route 66. Dad was able to live the reality of that fantasy through me. I’m glad we got to share some time together on the west coast. When he worked for L.A. Gear in the late 1980’s. I took him to a “Los Angles Kings Hockey Game” and we watched “Wayne Gretzky” skate at the Great Western Forum. I took Dad and his shoe buddy into Hollywood and we partied at the legendary Rainbow Bar and Grill. We chilled in Malibu and had lunch on the beach. Thanks to Mom and Dad, we always had a good time in Las Vegas during Dad’s Footwear Conventions. It was surreal to be in the City of Angels with Dad. The last day we spent the day together in California, I drove him down to his hotel in Huntington Beach. That day there was no one but us on the beach and we just walked and talked. The beach that day was kinda overcast and reminded me of the movie “City of Angels” with Nicholas Cage where the Angels all gather at the ocean. No matter how much time we spent together, Dad eventually seemed to have to go, and we would say our good byes. If there was ever a Santa Claus, it was Dad. Dad was very benevolent with his time and money. The year Dad dressed up playing Santa back in the 1980’s delivering balloons made me realize the big candy apple red suit just wrapped right around Dad’s inner character like a mold. Like Santa, Dad loved to travel and sport a belly full of cookies. Dad is the only guy who could upstage Kris Kringle!


Dad validated things in my life. His greatest gift was his natural voice of reason. He always had the greatest quick advice for anything. I called Dad once from California upset over my relationship with my fiance. I went on and on. Dad says “Son, how old is she?” I replied “Well, she’s 23.” And he said “And how old are you?” And I said “Well, I’m 33.” He said, “With the exception of your ten year age difference, if she doesn't eventually get your ass, an earthquake will!”


Dad loved dogs and we have always had a dog in our house growing up. A few years ago we rescued two dogs “Perky and Duke.” Perk is a little feisty black dog and Duke a huge 200 pound golden Mastiff. Dad and Duke were quite the pair. Dad called him “Day Day.” Dad would say “Day Day knows!”Dad looked like “The Lone Ranger” laying on the floor with his horse when him and Duke would crash out on the family room floor. Some nights Dad and Duke used to snore in unison like “The Three Stooges.” When Dad would come home from work, one of us would say “Duke, Daddy’s home!” Duke would be passed out cold and hear “Daddy’s home!” And all 205 pounds of him would shake the entire house running to the front door to greet Dad. He would move furniture to greet Dad. Duke would sit at the front door waiting for Dad wagging his tail as it sounded like a “Buddy Rich” drum solo thumping against the door. Dad had silly names for all the ways he would pet Duke. He would say “These are windshield wipers” and he would swing his hands across Dukes Stomach like a car windshield wiper. And then Dad would say “And these are palm rolls and ear flutters” as he would pet Duke’s bowling ball size head. Sadly Duke passed away back in March 11, 2008. The next morning, Dad was standing out on the back deck sobbing over a cup of coffee gazing off into our backyard. When I asked him what he was thinking about, he said he was visualizing Duke meeting up with “Gretzky, Ace and Henry” and our other dogs who had passed and they we’re running over the hill off into the distance together.


Tuesday September 31, Dad did his favorite thing the last day of his life, he played golf. I was walking the dogs that day around noon as he drove down the street to make sure I had my key and he didn’t want to lock me out. He said “Good bye son” and I watched the back of his silver Caddy roll slowly away up the street until he disappeared out of the distance. It’s one of my last visual’s of Dad. I’m glad it was all blue skies and a warm sunny for his last cruise up Lake Terrace Dr. A week or so before that, Dad was watching the news about the wall street stock market crash. I said to him, “Gosh Dad, everything is becoming just like the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life!” And he looked back at me and replied “Yes it is son, it sure is.”


The week before Dad passed, I bought us two cans of chili at Kroger and wrote our names on the top of each can. I said “Hey Dad look, I picked up father and son cans of chili.” He looked at his can with “Dad” written on top as if he was going to cry. He never ate his can and it now sits on my desk as a silly memorial in honor of Dad.


The day before Dad passed away, he did the one thing he loved most of all. He played 18 holes of golf. After Dad struggled through the 18th and his final putt. Dad high fived his friend and said “Thanks for the last 18!” Per my request, the golf course superintendent at Nashboro Village kindly gave me the flag off the 18th green. It’s the last hole Dad played. The red and white checkerd flag has no numbers, and is a little dirty and tattered from ten months of Nashville weather and several thousand bogies. It is now proudly displayed in our family room where Dad loved to kick up his feet and watch his favorite channel, “The Golf Channel.”


Dad was born in May in the heart of Spring as the earth bloomed, and sadly he left us in the Fall as the Autumn Leaves blanketed our lawn. It was sad to see our big annual bucket of Halloween Candy sit untouched for weeks as Dad was not there to raid it. Trying to imagine Dad as an angel is like an episode of “The Three Stooges.” He could easily give Moe, Larry, and Curly a run for their money. I visualize Dad young and handsome again. He’s clean shaven and dressed in white from hear to toe with huge fluffy wings and a shining halo above his slicked backed hair. I picture Dad on a giant cloud barbecuing and playing horse shoes with Uncle John, Grampa Boots, Grandma Julie, Uncle Bud, Auntie Duck, Uncle Gene and Aunt Jenny, Cousins Danny, and Donny. It’s hard to believe we lost Dad and our big baby fat boy Duke this year. Their souls have moved on and I know they are with some very good people...I hope Dad and Duke sat next to George Carlin, Bettie Paige, and Paul Newman on the tram riding into Heaven. I know if Dad did, he would have talked about his family the whole time. And Duke would have slobbered on Paul Newman’s Wings. Fischer Family get togethers and casual moments are never going to be the same without Dad. My life beside Dad only lasted 45 years. A long time, but not long enough. There are so many things left unsaid, and so many memories left undone. Just because he is gone from sight, does not mean he is still mighty. Dad has sailed onto new ports to meet to people, places and things. I will miss his warmth, wisdom, and humor. Dad was a good man and I know he’s not gone, he’s just in another zip code giving Angels advice on footwear, food, and golf. Or he’s just laying on a cloud with Duke watching down on us.


Dad’s Legacy to us is the greatest gift of all. Human kindness! His gift’s to us are unseen and not a gift that you wrap. Dad blessed us with his humble presence, and his legacy are is family and friends. And the lessons and humorous impressions he left behind. The greatest gifts in this world are not materialistic. They are the gifts of hope and love that Dad was a natural at. Dad was a straight shooter and a veteran at enjoying the fruits of life. He passed his travleing, good time, go get em’ attitude onto anyone he ever hung around. If you hung out with Bob, cherish it. He was one of a kind and the end of an era. Dad has left behind an ocean of memories, a mountain of golf balls and many wiser hearts. I become sad when I think about Dad. Then I think about something funny Dad did like rip a fart at 3 am while I’m tip toeing down the hallway to the bathroom. I always knew Dad was alive in the middle of the night if he was farting or snoring. Since Dad and Uncle John passed away, Steak n’ Shake and Waffle House may go bankrupt. Bob had a wonderful life! He had cool cars, a loving family, cool dogs, he was the world traveler, and his spirit will live on in our hearts as we live life and do things in honor of Dad. Much like “Clarence The Angel” in “It’s a Wonderful Life”, I think it’s safe to say Daddy Fish has earned his wings. Robert Dale Fischer rocked and he never needed a record deal, roadies, or his own My Space Page. He just needed someone to love and hold, and be funny for. You can have a lot of things in life, but only one Dad.

"Thanks Dad!"

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