Dad was always proud of his service in the Korean War.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I'm not sure I would have bought a Porsche if it weren't for my father. The impact he had in developing my interest for exceptional cars was undeniable.

There's a lot about my dad I don't recall clearly, but then other memories are as vivid as imagination.

Descending the stairs in the early dawn to watch his preparation for work, the news broadcasting through an earplug tethered to a radio, he organized his briefcase with the skill of a typesetter. Even as a child, I admired his sense of symmetry and balance.

Dinner was always a lively event, with animated accounts of his office cohorts, Bob and Sam and Tom. Work defined my father. An architect by trade, he was in his element when any project was underway. There were always maps, drawings and blueprints involved, with every aspect meticulously planned.

Through common interests, we were closest when I was in high school in the 1970s — football, camping and the latest technical gadgets. My passion for cars had intensified by this point, and we shared countless conversations about Bob's flawless 1972 911 Targa, or Sam's new and intriguing 1974 914.

Dad faked a disinterest in owning a Porsche. After all, I was one of six kids to feed. He laughed that we had the original anyway (our VW Beetle). But when either of them pulled up the driveway, he would circle around and blow out a soft whistle.

Dad was no longer with us when I bought my Cayman back in 2009, and I sometimes feel gypped out of this very reaction.

With six kids to feed (that's me in the red), Dad didn't spend much time dreaming about owning a Porsche. He also always happened to be the one behind the camera, never in the family photos.

My automotive projects littered the driveway and much of his workbench, but I never got the sense it annoyed him. I think he knew each was a valuable learning experience for me. I once overheard him tell my grandfather that I could fix anything eventually. Maybe that was a backhanded compliment, but nothing ever meant more to me.

Working at a department store when I was in high school, Dad would stop by and wander around the hardware section while I peddled small appliances next door. He'd come and get my discount card, but often left without buying anything.

When my wife and I were dating, I'd come home from being out too late and find him on the couch with our dog Ben. The two of them looked content together. Ben seemed to recognize his importance, and Dad appreciated the respect. Though he never admitted to waiting up, he wouldn't go to bed until the last one of us returned.

College, work and then marriage took me away from the home where I'd spent my formative years. It's life. You grow up, out and away. But I often found myself returning for his insight on something I couldn't figure out. He didn't always have the answer, but I learned from his unique perspective.

Dad always joked that we didn't need a Porsche since we had the original — our VW Beetle.

Today as a project manager, I catch myself using the same approach he never knew he had taught me. Long after his passing, I finally appreciate the reach of his influence. So I think of him now every Father's Day for the gifts he gave to me that didn't come wrapped up in a box.

The years have blurred like passing cars. And though my dream to own a Porsche had never wavered, the reality of its possession only recently presented itself — coincidentally, at about the same age he was when my obsession peaked.

I guess it's my innate sense of logic that prompts a skepticism regarding religion, divinity, heaven, hell and eternal life. I suppose I can at least partially attribute that trait to my father, though he wouldn't want to hear me say that.

Maybe it would be hypocritical of me, but now that he's gone, I prefer to think of him somewhere ... on the couch with his hand dangling over Ben on the floor, waiting for all of us to come home.