Dad Jokes and Zebra Toenails: A Father's Day Tribute
Dad in High School
We debated whether to share this tribute to our Dad.
But what he taught us about joy, work, humor, and love is bigger than us.
It’s about a 15-minute read (tissue breaks and roflols not included).
We hope it makes you smile or remember. And if it brings someone to mind, we’d be honored to hear about him too.
Thank you for your kindness.
~ The Village Sisters
The memories that made us laugh then and still hold us now.
Our Dad passed away over 20 years ago. Our baby sister, Rynaidrosa was only eight years old. Her memories of him are scattered… flickers, feelings, and snapshots. So we, her older sisters, pass them down, not as perfectly preserved history, but as living stories. And often, as jokes.
Because that was our Dad’s language: humor, delivered dry and lovingly absurd.
Hero Fuel
Dad was a firefighter. We used to visit him at the fire station, admire the trucks, the hoses, and the fire pole. But what do we remember most? The freezer.
Wrapped in anonymous white freezer paper, packages were stacked like frozen secrets. One of Dad’s friends gave us the tour and, with a perfectly straight face, told us they were storing:
Ostrich butt
Giraffe neck
Zebra toenail
We were amazed. Not skeptical. Not confused. Just utterly convinced that this was the kind of elite protein required to save lives.
One day, I asked Dad how many fires he fought each year. He said, on average… one. I must have looked disappointed.
He nodded, then explained that part of his job was fire prevention. Fewer fires meant he was doing it right.
He didn’t need a blaze to prove his bravery. He was courage under, before and after fire, as a firefighter and as a Dad.
Taller Than Truth
Daddy and His Girls
To us, Dad wasn’t just tall. He was the tallest man in the world.
Until one day, one of his taller friends came to visit. He looked like Goose from Top Gun. It sent me and my younger sister, TJ into a quiet spiral. We whispered theories to make sense of this world-shattering contradiction.
“Maybe he’s standing on a mound of dirt.”
“Yeah… yeah, just a little hill.”
We needed Dad to remain the tallest. So we made the world bend to keep it true.
College Dreams Up in Smoke
Dad was frugal. Not cheap, intentional. He made do, stretched things, and found pride in providing without wasting.
He smoked Kools. To this day, TJ still loves the smell of the first two puffs of a Kool cigarette because of our Dad. We tried for years to get him to quit smoking. We brought home what we learned in school: the warnings, the health risks, the posters with blackened lungs. He listened. He nodded. But he didn’t quit.
Then we started researching college.
That’s what did it.
No lectures. No guilt. Just a new line item in his mental budget... us going farther than he could. He quit smoking like he did everything else: quietly, without ceremony, and completely.
We never forgot what that meant.
Worn Soles & Full Hearts
He worked three jobs. One was as a firefighter. The second was bagging groceries after work-work. He would wear white tape around his fingers to guard against paper cuts. We always thought he looked like Michael Jackson. He spent his evenings stocking at the commissary.
I remember him coming home from that third job, too tired to take off his shoes. I helped him and that’s when I saw them. The soles were thin. Cracked.
We never went without. Not for school shoes. Not for cleats, unless we didn’t admit they were too small. (Looking at you, self-sacrificing sister TJ...aka the favorite.) He walked through the world with worn soles so we could run into it with new ones.
The Extra Hug
When we were little, our Dad left for TDY, temporary duty overseas, for several months. It was the longest we had been away from him.
Back then, international phone calls were expensive, unreliable, and rare. We didn’t get to speak to him much. He would send letters to our Mom instead.
One day, I found one and in it, Dad instructed Mom to give my sister TJ, the youngest at the time, an extra hug from him.
An extra hug. For her.
I was devastated. (C’mon. I was 9 years old.)
I had my suspicions that she might be his favorite, but now I had evidence. I carried that quiet injustice for decades.
Then one day, I retold the story to TJ and Rynaidrosa, sharing the moment, my proof.
That’s when TJ explained: during one of those rare international calls, she had gotten so choked up, she couldn’t even speak. Dad knew it broke her heart. So he gave the instruction in the only way he could:
“Give her an extra hug.”
It wasn’t favoritism. It was triage, a long-distance love from a father to his then baby girl.
Meanwhile, Rynaidrosa sat nearby, amused and slightly bewildered by it all.
We were in our mid-teens when she was born, essentially raised as a faux only-child. Parental favoritism? Sibling rivalry? She missed all that drama.
But she devoured the retelling, connecting the dots, confirming pieces of her own tender, young memories of our Dad.
DIY Studio: Dad Edition
We couldn’t afford official family portraits, no Olan Mills, no soft lights, no coordinated sweaters on a painted canvas. So Dad made his own studio.
He spray-painted a backdrop onto an old sheet and hung it up in the living room. It wasn’t quite big enough. You can see the furniture peeking out behind us in the photo. But we’re all lined up, trying to look poised as the timer on the camera counted down.
That photo is still one of our favorites.
Curbside Treasures and Sidewalk Shame
One summer day, my Dad and I were doing yard work together. On the way back from dumping grass clippings, we pulled up to our neighbor’s house, right next door to ours.
They were throwing out an old push mower. Dad told me to grab it.
I was mortified. The neighbor was peeking at us from behind a curtain. I was reluctantly obedient. We made eye contact and both immediately pretended we hadn’t.
The whole time, Dad sat grinning in the driver’s seat… watching his kid wheel a squeaky old mower from their house straight into ours from the safety of his car.
He didn’t care what anyone thought. He just loved a good find.
And he loved dragging us along for the ride.
Reindeer Magic
Our Dad worked multiple jobs to support our family. He was a sensitive person who rarely had time to be creative. But one year, out of nowhere, he made a reindeer out of a log and some sticks for Christmas.
We were stunned.
This strong, serious man, who carried fire hoses and kept our lights on, had quietly built a whimsical reindeer with his hands.
We have a photo of him standing beside it. He looks very serious. But we know better. We don’t have the original reindeer anymore. But we found tiny wooden reindeer ornaments online this year.
That reindeer was a quiet act of joy.
And when the Barbie toy RV didn't arrive in time for Rynaidrosa's Christmas morning? He didn't panic. He left a trail of coal for her to follow... all the way to the fireplace where the RV was "stuck in the chimney."
Classic Dad: turning near-crisis into Christmas magic. It was proof: even when there wasn’t time, he made room for wonder.
Big Thumbprints to Fill
Not long ago, I took a picture with a co-worker who had cartoonishly-large hands. My sisters and I giggled, and suddenly, we were remembering another Dad joke.
Dad had told us about a man he served with in the military who had giant hands. His “official” job, according to Dad? Placing thumbprints on top of cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew.
Utter nonsense. Classic Dad.
Sacred Laughter
When we were writing Dad's eulogy, the stories that surfaced were mostly funny. Dad joke funny. Giant thumbprint funny. Zebra toenail funny. We paused. Was it too much? Too silly for a funeral?
We asked the funeral director. He smiled and said:
“You set the tone. It’s obvious he was deeply loved. If you give people permission to laugh… they will. And it will help...”
So we did.
And we still do.
Guardian Angel
At the very end of the service, our Dad's sister stood quietly by his side, eyes full of tears. Then she turned to us and said:
“He will make the best guardian angel.”
And he has.
Steeler Nation
Dad was a huge Pittsburgh Steelers fan.
As his kids, we carried that loyalty like a family crest. Every regular season game win, every playoff loss, every fumble, every interception, every touchdown, every good and bad call from Coach Tomlin, he’s right there with us. Yelling at the TV. Laughing at our overreactions. Proud, loud, and part of the Steeler nation.
Because love like that doesn’t disappear.
It makes us huddle closer.
The Belt
Our Dad was proud of his kids, like, engraved-his -kids'-names-in-his leather-belt-proud.
To him, it was a tribute. A custom-made emblem of fatherhood.
To us? It felt… ominous.
We were raised in a time when corporal punishment wasn’t unusual, and belts were more often a threat than a keepsake.
So seeing our names carefully stamped into that thick strip of leather?
It didn’t read as love. It read as warning.
Years later, our Mom told us that he was surprised to hear we’d taken it that way.
He had thought it was obvious—it was pride.
It was never used for anything but display.
But that misplaced anxiety? That was very real to us. And apparently it traveled across generations to Rynaidrosa, who had no direct experience with the out-dated intimidation tactics, but spiritually flinched when she came across the belt while playing hide-n-seek in a closet. She was thankful there wasn’t enough room on the belt for her name.
We laugh about it now.
Especially on the day TJ tried the belt on. I warned, “It’s going to be huge.”
But it wasn’t.
We looked at each other, stunned. Our giant Father was… slim. At least slimmer than us in our current state.
We long for another hug from Dad. Somehow, we found comfort in the snugness of his belt.
Four Times a Lady
Dad loved Motown. That was the soundtrack of our family road trips, flowing through the car speakers. We’d all sing along to The Temptations, Smokey Robinson, Marvin Gaye.
But one song in particular always stuck with us:
“Three Times a Lady,” by the Commodores.
Except… Dad changed the lyrics.
He sang it to our Mom as “Four Times a Lady,” because they had four kids together.
He made it a tribute, despite the protests from his youngest child, Rynaidrosa, who insisted on the correct lyrics.
But it wasn’t just soul music. Dad had a soft spot for Disney songs, thanks to his youngest.
He would ballroom dance in the living room to Beauty and the Beast, gently twirling his baby daughter to the sound of Angela Lansbury’s voice.
Rynaidrosa cherished a tiny “Chip” Dad and Mom had bought for her from a Beauty and the Beast Musical. To honor that, TJ bought us each a large Chip cup that lives in our China cabinet with Mrs. Potts.
And when guests visit, they often long for their very own Chip cup… hoping, just for a moment, to be a part of the story too.
Say It Loud
That was our Dad’s way, dancing, singing, teasing, and always authentic.
And sometimes… very public.
When he visited me during Parents' Weekend, he rolled around my college quad blasting James Brown’s “Say It Loud – I’m Black and I’m Proud.”
I was mortified that day and for years after. Now, it's one of my favorite memories of him.
That was his kind of pride, big, joyful, and completely unapologetic.
Standard Bearer
When our older brother placed second in the state finals for hurdles, Dad celebrated the whole ride home by honking the car horn for nearly an hour.
And then there was my race.
I was the anchor in a 4x4 relay, holding the lead… until I didn’t.
Their anchor passed me at the finish line.
Dad was right there at the end.
I saw him quietly walk away.
We never spoke about it.
LOL.
He didn’t need a perfect ending. Just an honest one.
He was proud when we soared and honest when we stumbled.
We all knew what it took to make his nose flare and his fist thump against his chest.
He didn’t just cheer, he set the standard.
Which Birthday?
Dad’s impact didn’t just shape our humor. It shaped our rituals, too.
Years ago, during an alternative spring break, I volunteered at a Native American reservation.We helped local high schoolers set up free email accounts. When I asked one student for their birthday, they replied:
“Which one?”
They explained that they had two. One was the day they were born. The other belonged to an older sibling who had passed before they were born. Their family gave them that second birthday, so that the joy of a child celebrating could help ease the ache of the one they’d lost.
I never forgot that. We tried to do the same for Rynaidrosa. Our Dad’s birthday was September 11, and we thought giving her his birthday could be one way to reclaim the day with joy. But then 9/11 happened. The grief was too large, both publicly and privately. And our motivation faded.
Years later, when I shared the origin of that two-birthday idea, Rynaidrosa nodded. She had felt it. And she had quietly resisted the pull of “9/11” all on her own…by privately celebrating our Dad’s birthday anyway.
He Lives in Us
The man who was the tallest in our eyes.
The man who carried myths in the freezer.
The man who worked too much, joked even more, and built a reindeer just because.
He gave us the tools:
Laughter. Love. And a thousand ways to keep telling the story.
We miss him.
We laugh for him.
We remember.
We reimagine.
We retell.
A love like that never ends.
If this reminded you of someone you love, we’d be honored to read your story too. Share in the comments, or share it forward.
Love,
Onjena Yo
Coach TJ
Rynaidrosa
#VillageValues #OurWorldOurHeart #TheVillageSisters
#FathersDayTribute #DadJokesForever
A Word From Our Brother
After reading this tribute, our brother wrote:
The way y’all transmogrified perceived slights or Dad’s contradictions—or rather a child’s narrow understandings—was lovely and gracious.
A few new insights and triggering details that make me smile and cringe simultaneously.
Three distinct perspectives on Dad’s belt—so true, especially Kimberly’s, never broached ’til now.
I’m struck by the forgiving lens in how you retell the track story—Dad walking away, maybe sparing you what he couldn’t yet express. I wonder if that moment cracked your sense of him, and if today’s telling is shaped by time and wisdom.
I wonder if 25 more years would’ve softened his edges… what our conversations might be like.
Thank you for creating and sharing this. A solid tribute piece.
