I don’t remember my father ever saying I love you. What I do recall were summers in Iowa. Struggling with the weight of hay bales to feed the horses and being told that I should be stronger for my age. Watching him punch one of those Belgians in the head because they weren’t cooperating with what he wanted them to do. The morning we left one year, I had made him a gift but when the time came to part, he was too tired to get up, muttered “that’s nice, thanks. See you next time” and rolled over to go to back to sleep.

I also remember the drinking and verbal abuse. A fragile man so angry at his own shortcomings that he felt it necessary to intimidate his wife and children. I was 12 the last time I was in the same room with him. I made it clear the day would come when I was his size — and even more clear how much I was looking forward to that day.

I didn’t go to his funeral but am grateful to my father for one thing: showing me that who I wanted to be was the opposite of who he was.

Come to think of it, I’m grateful for two things.

I dove into horror at a very young age because I needed to escape into a world where I felt seen. Long before those dreaded summers in Iowa, were bi-weekly weekend visits when my father still lived in the same city as my mother. I’d endure remarks about my strength or speed, questions about why I wasn’t like my cousins, or anger about me spending most of the weekend in my room away from him. I only wanted to finish my work in the yard so I could head to the video store and pick up as many FRIDAY THE 13TH movies as my meager weekend allowance allowed.

I eventually explored non-FRIDAY avenues. Along the way I discovered SILVER BULLET (1985) and had an awakening. I had no idea who Gary Busey was, but ever since “another lovely night at sister Nan’s”, Uncle Red has been scorched into my memory.

Yes, he was an alcoholic and yes, he made decisions that were more about being the cool uncle than a responsible adult because who the hell buys their nephew a bag of fireworks to shoot off alone, in the middle of the night, when there is an active killer in town?

That’s kind of a huge red flag that I’m not allowed to ignore, but here’s my point: Uncle Red tried.

It was Uncle Red who said there was more to Marty than him not being able to walk. Uncle Red was the one who reminded Marty that no shithead can stop the good guys. Uncle Red was the one who walked into the sheriff’s office and shared a story about “this blue” and Reverend Werewolf. Uncle Red marched into a gun store with a concocted story about the Lone Ranger and asked for a silver bullet. And Uncle Red bought and paid for a romantic trip for two to New York so that he could clear his sister and brother-in-law out and be in the house to protect his niece and nephew during the full moon.

Uncle Red may not have always made the safest decisions, but he tried. He was there when it mattered. He believed in Marty and Jane when no one else would. And he fought for them.

Hell, Uncle Red built the Silver Bullet for Marty, not because it was the safest option–because it most certainly was not–but so that Marty had something he felt good about and was proud of. “I built that for you because I love you. Right from my heart.”

After Marty took said Silver Bullet–less a wheelchair than a three-wheeled motorcycle–out for a test run, Uncle Red warned Marty not to tell his mother how fast it was, to which his nephew responded, “ya know, I don’t get you.”

Uncle Red simply said “I know you don’t.”

But I did. And I do.

And I’m positive there are many of you reading these words for whom it resonates, as well.

While it was easy to see why Uncle Red’s sister was apprehensive about his influence on her son, it was just as easy to see that Uncle Red wanted Marty and Jane to be confident and happy, and never missed an opportunity to let them know that they could be more than he ever was.

This Father’s Day, I’m not an alcoholic or capable of building anything for which one may or may not need a pilot’s license — but like Uncle Red, I show up for the people I love — the polar opposite of my father.

And I did win a subscription to Popular Mechanics.