My daddy wasn't perfect; he'd be the first to tell you that. But I remember sitting on his lap while he read the Sunday comics to me, and I loved it: I must have been five years old or younger, because after that I could read for myself.
I remember how my Daddy thought all my jokes were funny.
I recall a time when I had an appointment at the beauty shop. I walked there from school, and Mom picked me up, and when we got home, Daddy was crying because I hadn't come home on the school bus. Mother forgot to tell him about the appointment, so he thought I'd been kidnapped.
Daddy had a temper. He really didn't care what folks thought of him. And "stuff" didn't matter much to him. I didn't inherit the temper, but I got lots of the other traits from him. Ask Cliff.
Nope, my father wasn't perfect. But he thought I was the greatest. He loved his other two kids, too. He was just right for me.