Last week marked the 15th year of my father’s passing. And I forgot the date. Sort of. But that’s not what I want to write about. What I want to write about is the way I finally remembered it: driving past a tree in my neighborhood that had fully changed into its autumn foliage, a bright beautiful orange, blazing gloriously away in the afternoon sun.

When I first encountered that tree, years ago, somehow it reminded me of my dad.

My dad, born and raised a city boy in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, somehow learned to be enthusiastic about trees, and azaleas, and so many garden fruits and vegetables that it didn’t occur to me until he was gone to wonder, where had he learned all that?

When my husband and I finally bought a house in suburban Long Island, it didn’t feel like home until we had our own raspberry bushes fighting to take over the back yard, the way Dad’s had done in Maryland. And I can never cut into a ripe tomato without remembering how many hours I had to spend watering Dad’s Beefsteak Tomato plants every summer day.

As for azaleas — my dad celebrated spring every year by taking us all out to one public arboretum or another, and posing us all in front of banks of blooming azalea bushes. I don’t know why he didn’t try planting his own — maybe our yard wasn’t big enough (after the raspberries were done with it). Going back through old photos, my sister-in-law and brother and I found we could have started an archive just using those pictures year after year.

But that was just the tip of the iceberg, because clearly — after my brothers and I, and even Mom, had lost patience with squinting into the sun for the camera and wandered off — Dad lavished the rest of the roll on just the flowering bushes. Every year. It’s as if they, too, were somehow members of his family. (We did not, however, feel the need to keep all of their photos.)

I guess what I’m saying is, my dad was a man of simple, predictable, but deep passions. And while first among those were my brothers, and me, and my mom — soon after that came apples, and apple trees, and peach trees, and raspberries, and strawberries — you know, plants.

There was, however, another side to my dad: the side that wanted me to be perfect. As passionate as he was about photos of azaleas, he was equally passionate about my achievements. But unlike the plants, whatever I managed to produce never seemed good enough. He was the parent who would look at a report card filled with A’s and ask, “Why is this an A-minus?”

He was the one who always warned me not to talk or laugh too loudly because “people” might not like that. I never knew who these “people” were — just that their opinion of me was more important than my own.

In high school years, whenever I wrote an essay — whether for a college application or anything else — and showed it to my parents, Mom was the one who praised the good parts and asked me questions till I realized I needed to clarify the rest. Dad was the one who always — unerringly —picked out the one sentence that most clearly made my point, and said, “Maybe tone that down a little.”

Even after I got married and brought my family some gifts from the honeymoon, I remember laying out the sweaters I had bought in Scotland for him and Mom, and the first words out of Dad’s mouth were not “Thank you” or even “You shouldn’t have.” No, pointing to the gift lying at his feet, he said, “There’s a spot.”

My first reaction was to marvel at his eyesight, because I couldn’t see anything wrong; but when I picked it up and brought it closer, sure enough there was a slightly darker part of the weave.

“Dad, that’s just what they always say about these kinds of garments: ‘Wool is a natural fiber, and some slubs or variations are naturally occurring. Such minor imperfections guarantee authenticity of your item and add to its beauty and character.’”

I’m still wishing for a label that says the same, about me.

I don’t remember anything else he said or didnafter that. Mom said he was always happy wearing the sweater, but his negative reaction cut straight to my heart and is what has stayed there.

That episode, by the way, is how I learned NOT to lead with a negative whenever my children asked me my opinion about something of theirs. What do I think of their application/dorm room/girlfriend/job? “If you can’t find anything positive to say,” I tell myself, “think of something positive anyway.” So I suppose in a way my pain was useful.

In this day and age of horrifying memoirs, I realize mine would be pretty small potatoes. But it’s important to me.

Now, with the wisdom of many years, I realize it was probably his own distrust of the world, his own uneasiness with it, that drove him to do what he thought was future-proofing me; it was not necessarily anything to do with me at all. Maybe it was just a reflex reaction, learned from his parents who had escaped from the Russian Pale, where you hid everything most precious to you, if you wanted to keep it safe.

But that’s not the lesson I learned. What I learned in my bones was that there was something wrong with just being myself, and I should do less of it if I wanted the world’s (and especially his) approval. Sit on myself. “Stifle yourself,” as “All in the Family’s” Archie Bunker always chastised his wife Edith. Hide my truest self under a light-proof bushel. A father doesn’t say that to a daughter he’s proud of — does he?

So I learned to approach my father with trepidation. Whatever good news I brought him was likely to produce a weird reaction. I finally got a credit card? “Good, but don’t go getting yourself into debt.” (Which of course is exactly what I did.) There was ALWAYS a “but.” And it never did me any good.

So, of course, I miss him — but until recently, my thoughts of him were always mixed. Good and bad. Sweet and bitter. Like my experiences. Which I guess means I still hadn’t really, completely forgiven him.

But last week, driving home through my tree-lined neighborhood, I turned a corner and was faced with not one, not two, but three big, beautiful autumn trees, blazing away in the glory of the afternoon sun.

And even though I don’t believe in angels, or the afterlife, or any of that “mumbo jumbo” as he would have called it — this truly felt like a message from Dad. “Blaze away!” I somehow felt sure he was telling me, from somewhere beyond the grave. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say it in my lifetime, but you are glorious, and wonderful, and all I want is for you to be happy, blazing away!”

That’s when I remembered that it was his yahrzeit anniversary. Coincidence? I think not. I rushed home, and lit the last memorial candle I have from the funeral home — and decided to write this revision of how I feel about my father.

Better late than never. Love you, Dad.