I’ve been thinking about my dad a lot—not just because today would have been his 100th birthday, but because he lived with integrity, honor, and compassion.
He’d be horrified by this administration and the man masquerading as president. Trump and his enablers are waging war on the most vulnerable, dismantling the democracy my father and so many others fought to protect. It would sicken him—and for that, I’m grateful he’s not here to witness it.
While Trump distanced himself from Project 2025 during his campaign, his administration has wasted no time implementing its recommendations. In just a few weeks, they have eliminated diversity initiatives, frozen federal funding, withdrawn from the Paris Climate Agreement, and laid off thousands of government workers—including over 1,000 staff members at the Department of Veterans Affairs.
We’re told these cuts are about eliminating “waste and fraud.” But who decides what qualifies? The White House’s Department of Government Efficiency—run by an unelected billionaire and crony handpicked by the president?
Are these actions even legal?
Who authorized the DOGE to access the Treasury Department’s payment system, which holds personal data on nearly every American? Musk and his allies are gutting agencies before the courts can even rule.
Trump insists voters gave him a sweeping mandate to bypass the rule of law, seize unchecked power, and fill the government with oligarchs. But there was no mandate. He won with less than 50% of the vote—meaning most Americans rejected him.
Yet we are witnessing a full-scale coup against democracy and the Constitution. Trump has shattered the system of checks and balances, seized congressional powers, and secured a free pass from the Supreme Court. He will bully, defy the law, and lie to get what he wants.
Donald Trump is a narcissist who thinks he’s the king of America. He is the ultimate example of vain entitlement and irresponsibility. He embodies everything we disdain in the old white male archetype.
Yet my father, an old white man himself, exemplified a different legacy. He earned his education on the GI Bill, became a compassionate doctor dedicated to women’s health, and raised a family of adopted children. He loved his wife for over fifty years, served as a scout leader and church deacon, and was a cherished friend to many.
The difference between my father and the president? Ehret Oscar Ramey embodied qualities that Donald Trump simply lacks: courage, empathy, and intelligence.
In honor of his turning 100 today, I am restacking a previous entry about my dad.
the case for daddy's girls
I got lucky—the universe paired me with Ehret Oscar Ramey as my counselor, teacher, mentor, protector, and friend. He was my adopted father, but in every way that mattered, he was simply Dad.
As a child, he had curly hair and grew up in a lower-income family that moved frequently, making him a target for teasing and bullying. He learned to fight at an early age, which, knowing him as I do, must have been difficult. His nature was inherently gentle.
But maybe those fights helped shape him—taught him who he was and who he wasn’t—because he never sought out conflict, but he never backed down from defending what he believed was right.
And when it came to me, what he believed was right usually was.
I wasn’t an easy kid. As his only daughter, I know he worried and, at times, was disappointed by my choices. But he never judged me. He never ignored me. He never made me feel ashamed or unworthy. No matter what, he was always there when I finally came home—offering whatever I needed. A kiss on my forehead. A long, steady embrace. Words of love. Or no words at all.
My dad was my champion, and I always knew it. That kind of love changes a person.
As a kid, I had a habit of running away—not out of fear, but to assert my autonomy and independence. Once, I “ran away” to a Young Life skating party. When my dad picked me up and discovered his 12-year-old daughter was drunk, he didn’t yell or punish me. Instead, he took me to the hospital where he worked, cleaned me up in the doctors’ lounge, and bought me a toothbrush.
“You’d better brush your teeth, stay away from alcohol, and, for God’s sake, don’t tell your mother,” he said.
There were a few things we agreed not to tell Mom.
He met my mother, a diminutive 89-pound southern beauty at Barnes Hospital. Ruth Wylodene Sturdivant worked as a dietitian and he was in his residency.
My parents were married for over 60 years—something I both admire and find astonishing. My father chose a difficult woman to love, and I often wondered how he not only stayed with her but adored her so completely.
To me, my mother was impossible. To him, she was simply her.
He never wavered, never seemed concerned. Looking back, his love for her became something of a wellspring for me—an example I return to when I’m feeling empty myself.
After my parents married, they moved to Kansas City to establish his medical practice and start their family. He became a beloved OB/GYN but multiple miscarriages derailed their plans for children.
That’s how my brothers and I became a family. It wasn’t an easy configuration.
With Dad at the hospital and Mom left to mind us, we fell into the chasm between our parents. He was a stabilizing if often absent force; she was minimally present, chronically overwhelmed, and woefully ill-equipped for child-rearing.
It was often confusing and lonely.
But Dad was a gentle soul. As a parent, he always treated us with respect—even when we were clearly out of line. I can only remember two times he ever truly lost his temper, and both were because my older brother or I had spoken disrespectfully to our mother.
I never saw the slap coming. The sting wasn’t just on my face—it was in my heart. There was no lower place to fall than the one called disappointing my father.
I burst into tears, and he immediately pulled me into his arms. That only made it worse.
I thought my dad was handsome and respected his accomplishments. He was a man of service and integrity—a teacher, a physician, a friend, and a caretaker to all.
He loved to sing, to dance, and to tell terrible jokes. He’d get so tickled telling them that, despite dreading the punchline, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.
In retirement, he spent hours in his woodshop, making things with his hands—until his stroke took that from him.
After the stroke, it was my turn to give back to him, and though I wanted to, it wasn’t easy. I used to call him “Dr. Magoo” when I was frustrated.
Once, I took him to the movies. At the concession stand, he tried to order a Coke but couldn’t get the words out. He gripped the display cup with all his strength, mumbling in frustration. I knew what he was trying to say and gently pried the cup from his hands as the cashier—who was a jerk—just stared at us.
I wanted to shout, “You don’t know this man! You don’t know how brilliant, kind, and loving he is! You don’t know how many lives he’s touched—how many lives he’s brought into this world!”
But we took our seats and watched the movie. And when my dad laughed it made everything better.
The week of his death, he labors at the breakfast table, so winded from congestive heart failure he can barely breathe.
Between arduous bites of Honey Nut Cheerios, he smiles, reaching for my hand, “So what are we going to do today?”
My heart and eyes sting because there is nothing we can do today, except wait.
“I think we’ll just hang out here, Dad,” I answer. He pats my hand.
My father died four days later.
For many years, I wondered about my birth parents – why they gave me up and who they were. I was sixty before I received that blessing in the form of discovering my half-siblings. We share a father whom I finally met via Zoom.
It was good to discover him because he is not my father. He’s just someone who got my birth mother pregnant.
My father, Ehret Oscar Ramey, was a gentleman who loved with great depth. I am so grateful for that fateful connection, my lucky destiny.
What a gift to be a Daddy’s girl—to know, without question, what it means to be loved deeply and completely by a kind and caring man.
Happy 100th birthday, Dad. Thank you. I sure miss you.
I’m lucky. I know it.
We found our way to the first of many “holiday parks,” quickly establishing a ritual of campground set up and nesting.
Perhaps it’s that proximity of nature that makes the people in New Zealand so unhurried, polite and happy. For as many tourists as they host each year, they are remarkably generous and caring.
My co-worker Cara, a young Mother of two sons, is an activist.
That’s why I’ve decided to take a larger view of Mr. Trump and the outcome of his leadership.
That says it all.
There were a few docks available, but the one I was drawn to was narrow, old and rickety. In the darkness, you couldn’t see the end of the dock, so it looked like you were simply walking out into the vast, endless ocean. It was scary.
Like that long walk down the dock, we’ve traversed some treacherous terrain since that night; some of it together and much of it alone. We’ve had time to face ourselves unmasked, afraid, and it was hard.