Share 'em. Either memories of your own Dad, or the trials and tribulations of being a Dad.
My Dad is easily the most important formative influence on my life. He's a bit rough in his manner, built like a brick shed made by someone who has no clue how to lay bricks. Gave me my love of flying, love of learning and taught me the hardest lesson a male needs to learn - that compassion makes you more of a man, not less. You look out for the weaker ones and that if anyone messes with family, they don't keep breathing for long. He's got his quirks. He yodels while he washes the dishes. Loves Jazz, though he can't play note one on any instrument, and the one person he'd leave Mom for is Peggy Lee. Mom is fine with that. The guy who seriously shorted himself to make damned sure I and then my sister had enough to eat. You try running a metal press 10 hours a day with only lettuce sandwiches to keep you going. The guy who would pull into the drive after a full shift, come in and play with us, read to us (Alice in Wonderland - he'd do the poems with all sorts of voices) and never once seem tired, or upset, or out of sorts. The guy who, age 40, went back to college, got an engineering degree, and became a highly respected and sought after aero engine designer. Hell, he still isn't retired at 85, he contracts three days a week.
An amazing man. Big damned shoes to fill. I used to think that. Mentioned it to him once and got such a smack in the head that my eyes crossed. "Stupid bugger. Fill your own shoes."
Love you, Dad.