Ronald "Ron" A. Carter, DDS

MY DAD Reflecting back on my childhood, I have nothing but wonderful, lasting memories — memories full of laughter, love, and fun. Dad had a special way of making even the most ordinary moments unforgettable. I remember what would have been a typical drive into Fresno to visit family. On the way home, with my brothers and me in the backseat, he’d turn on a murder mystery on the radio to keep us entertained. Once we pulled into town, he’d stop at Short Stop to grab a gallon of milk and a dozen donuts — a late-night treat for all of us to share. Just like that, a regular car ride became something we looked forward to. Then there were the magical times at Bass Lake. On the drive up, we’d always stop at The Green Store. Dad would gas up the car, and we’d run inside to buy candy — yes, candy! Once at the lake, our days were filled with boating, water skiing, riding the Honda 75, picking wild blackberries, and making homemade ice cream. At night, we’d walk through Uncle Roy’s cabin (creepy enough on its own, made worse by Dad telling us there was a body in the trunk on the deck) to visit another family with kids our age. We’d roast s’mores by a bonfire and swap spooky stories, then run back through Roy’s place as fast as we could. Even the drive home was memorable — Dad made a game of conserving gas, coasting downhill in our station wagon (which looked just like the family truckster from Vacation), flying past other cars only to slow way down going uphill. That’s when he’d yell, “Okay kids, rock the car!” and we’d all lean and rock together like it might help us make the peak. Of course, it always did. After Bass Lake came Tahoe. The Tahoe house had a big, beautiful lawn, and Dad spent hours mowing, blowing, and manicuring it to perfection. I remember once, when I wasn’t quite 21, I was there with a high school friend who made us strong rum and cokes in those solid brown plastic tumblers we used to sell for cheerleading. (I didn’t sell many, so our house was fully stocked.) After working outside, Dad came in, grabbed my tumbler from my hand, and chugged it — thinking it was water. The shock on his face was priceless… but I never got in trouble. He actually thought it was funny. And then there was the boat — Daddy’s Way. A twin turbo, magenta-and-white speed boat that was 100% Dad’s style. On a Sunday afternoon before heading home, I asked to take it out for a quick spin. He said yes, of course, but told me not to be too long. Out on the water, another fast boat pulled up beside me, and its driver made it clear he thought his was faster. Naturally, I had to prove him wrong. I hit it, kicked in the twin turbos, and left him in my wake. On the way back, the engine sputtered — I had run out of gas. A kind stranger towed me in. I was late returning, but when I told Dad what happened, he didn’t care. He just smiled and asked, “But who won?” He was so proud. Dad always loved fast things — boats, yes, but also cars. I don’t think there was ever a time when he didn’t have a sports car in the garage. Most famously, there was the Shelby Cobra — fire engine red, fast as hell, and incredibly rare. His was one of fewer than 30 ever built, and he treated it like a treasure (because it was). As the story goes, I once ran my little red fire truck into the side of it — and he didn’t even get mad. My mom, however, hated that car. She burned her leg on the running pipe every time she got in. Eventually, she gave Dad an ultimatum: “Either that car goes, or I go.” So… Dad sold the car. But he never stopped talking about it — and somehow, every time he told the story, its value had gone up. As of today, some have sold for over $13 million. I think he knew what he had. Dad was also a world-class tease — especially with my mom. A few months ago, we got them a new puppy to help fill the void left by sweet Greta. As the puppy wrestled in her crate one night, Mom asked, “Ron, what is that?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Carolyn, you don’t remember? We got a bunny rabbit!” That kind of humor is what we were blessed with our whole lives. That “bunny rabbit” is now our dog, Emma, and every time I look at her, I think of my dad. I know it’s exactly what he would have wanted — and in a way, I feel like I still have a piece of him with me. There are no words big enough to capture all that my dad was — but I feel so proud, and so privileged to say he was mine. I thank you and love you so very much for having given me the love, confidence, strength and determination to make me the person I am today! I will always cherish that I can call you MY DAD.