A few weeks ago, another milestone sped by — the 20th anniversary of my father’s passing. After two decades, that annual recognition has mellowed into a thoughtful day of remembrance, a day to ponder the residual lessons and wisdom that far outlived his time on earth.

This year’s memory focused not on something this wisest of men said but rather something he did, something so casual and nearly imperceptible that it escaped notice at the time it was done yet, in the end, typically blessed his daughter in an unanticipated way.

My husband and I, barely wed and exceptionally penniless, decided we should treat ourselves to a small camping trip into the wilds of Wyoming’s Teton Range late in the summer before the nights became too cold. We didn’t own a tent and couldn’t afford a hotel room. But we did own a very old, beat-up truck, some scrap lumber, heavy black plastic, and a dream. We hammered together a sort of square structure into the back of our truck and stapled black plastic all over it. It was the Taj Mahal of scrap lumber and black plastic campers, complete with a flap for a door. We pushed our sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, and food-filled cooler through the flap, then hit the road.

Fortunately, we made a stop at my parents’ home on our way out of town, a kind of “Hey, look at us! Aren’t we clever!” visit. On our way there, we noticed wide-eyed stares and gaping grins of many we passed.

My father, a highly self-disciplined man, managed to keep his hands in his pockets and whatever must have gone through his head to himself as he studied our “home away from home,” a careful stare pasted on his face. After a long pause he wished us well on our journey and stepped back.

And then … and then. Like a casual, almost nonexistent afterthought, he said, “Say, why don’t you take our small tent with you. You could store your food in it.” Well, that seemed like such a great idea. We nodded, and by the next blink he was shoving it through our flap door. We hugged him and Mom good-bye and were on our way.

What we didn’t know, and what Dad surely must have known, is that plastic stapled to lumber won’t last in 70-mile-per-hour wind. We watched in dismay as the plastic noisily flapped, tore, shred and began to peel away in great strips from our superb structure. After the first hundred miles, it looked like an angry animal writhing in long, black strips snaking out in all directions.

Somewhere out on the plains of Wyoming lie the remains of a moldering mound of busted two-by-fours, likely with tattered remnants of black plastic still attached. Somewhere out there, in a fit of surrender, my husband finally pulled the truck off the road into the barrow pit, stalked around to the back of the truck, and in a mammoth surge of frustrated energy, tore the entire structure out of the truck and heaved it over the side.

We still reminisce about that moment. We chuckle about our naively built boxy structure, wishing we had a photo of it. We recall the noisy sound of it flailing itself to pieces in the wind. We laugh remembering my husband’s energetic jettisoning of the whole mess into the weeds.

And then … and then. We praise my Dad — for his knowledge, his wisdom and his carefully offered recommendation that provided what ended up being the only housing we had, a canvas cocoon that enabled us to complete our journey.

From Dad we learned that a soft suggestion surpasses an opinionated outburst, a careful comment overcomes criticism, and a thoughtfully offered alternative will far more likely be accepted.

From Dad we learned that sometimes the wisest parenting is the kind you almost don’t see.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.