I Am Really Glad That He Is My Dad

On All Saints’ Sunday last month, I tuned in online to the worship service of my childhood church in Dallas, where I am still a member.  This was a special service where all of the members of the church who have passed away in the past year are celebrated and remembered.  The minister read each name out loud while an acolyte placed a lighted candle on the altar.  I listened solemnly as my mother’s name was read and watched as my nephew placed her candle carefully.  During his sermon, the pastor spoke about those of us who are “left behind,” and what our purpose is.

 

It was important to me to watch this service live, even if I was not able to physically attend with my father and sister.  I found the words and music very comforting, and I reflected often in the coming days, thinking a lot about my mother, my father, and my sister.

Next week, I am due to fly back to the states for the holidays, and I am really looking forward to the trip.  However, I am also feeling both apprehensive and a bit pensive; right about this time last year, my mother was coming to the end of her life.  Last year’s visit was not a very happy visit, and I have found myself feeling concerned about how I will cope with my first Christmas since her death.  It is difficult to push the unpleasant memories away and bring more pleasant thoughts to the mind.

 

It is no surprise that both my father and sister are having similar thoughts.  Just last weekend, I was skyping with my sister when suddenly my dad pinged me.  I looped him into our call and for a few minutes all three of us chatted via video conference.  At one point, I noticed that my father got a little emotional, albeit briefly, and that was really when the penny dropped for me.  A few minutes later, he hung up, leaving Lynne and me to continue our conversation.  She and I talked about our own current feelings, and she shared that she was in the same situation.  I told her that I was thinking a lot about the All Saint’s message from a few weeks back.  Being left behind, and as a result, we have a lot of living to do.

 

After a rather challenging past year, it seems appropriate for me to tell my father just what he means to me.  This past week, I actually laughed myself to sleep while remembering some of the anecdotes that you are about to read. 

  

As a child, one of the books I had in my collection was The Daddy Book.  Like many other children’s books from the early 70s, it contained a decent amount of diversity for that generation.  It might be considered a bit dated today, but for me, it was very informative.  It certainly fit with the experience I was having as a kid growing up.  By this, I mean that most of the fathers that I was interacting with  all seemed to be just like the dads presented in the book: there were tall dads, short dads, dads with varying occupations, different hobbies, etc.  This all fit in my world: the life of Bryan.

I’ll admit that I have not really thought about that book for the past 40 some odd years.  It had significant meaning for me at the time, and helped set my initial perspective.

For example, learning to play sports.  My dad taught me how to catch and throw and hit a baseball (softball).  We would play catch in the front yard during the spring and summer.  He would hit pop flies for me to catch and throw back to him.  This didn’t always go quite as well as either of us planned.  At least one time, I failed to catch the ball (my fault) with my glove and instead caught the ball directly on the hinge of my glasses, breaking them.  As an unfortunate additional consequence, the hinge cut my temple open and bled a lot.  We obviously stopped playing and went inside to get medical attention from mom. 

 

In autumn, we would throw the football back and forth to each other.  I would then run pass patterns and my father would be quarterback, telling me to “go long,” or “go short.”  Of course, I am speaking of American football, here.  My dad seemed to know a lot of different patterns, and we proved to combine really well.

 

We did not play only in the front yard.  Out in the driveway behind the house, my dad hung a basketball goal above the garage.  (Drive down any alley in our neighborhood during the 70s and 80s and you which houses had kids.)  Again, my father just seemed to know all about sports.  Shooting hoops behind the garage is a pastime that one can play on their own, but playing games like HORSE are more fun with someone there with you.   The neat thing about playing out back was that Dad could not park the car when coming home from work if I was playing.  He’d have to park out front so that we had space on the driveway.  Sometimes I think this was my strategy to be playing outside when he got home (which inevitably still surprised me….when a car swings into the driveway where you are playing) because normally he would change out of his work clothes and come outside and shoot a few baskets with me.

While I learned the basics of all three of those sports from my father, I really simply enjoyed playing with him.  Because we could do these things at home, we could decide spontaneously to go outside for a few minutes.

As soon as I was able to stand, I think my father put a tennis racket in my hand.  This was truly his sport, and from a really early age, we could go out to the tennis courts to practice.  This was a completely different sporting experience because of the technical development.  It is not as if we were playing best of 5 sets when I was 5 years old; I first learned the basics, then learned to rally (hitting the ball back and forth over the net to one another).  Still, this development continued throughout my childhood and adolescence. 

 

By early teens, we were playing matches with each other regularly and I actually started joining the weekly tennis group that my father was in (with several other dads).  When I finally actually beat my father in a match, I was quite proud of the accomplishment.  My father was equally pleased and certainly encouraged me to continue with the sport.

Although I did not play competitive tennis in high school, I still played in the weekly tennis group, and by this time was winning a lot more than I was losing.  I had reached a similar level of competitiveness with the other dads and I felt honored to be in their company.

 

I ended up walking on to the tennis team at college, and I am still really glad that he made that suggestion to me so strongly.  Despite the ups and downs of my life, I do not have too many regrets.  This is not a piece about regret, but I will say that I do regret never inviting my father to come see me play a match at Austin College. 

Ironically, when I developed a brief interest in playing golf as a teenager, he was not really a golf fan. The experiment (and that’s what I refer to it as) did not last long and was certainly not successful.  Once he retired, my father took an active interest in golf, learning and improving his game.  One year, I gave him a round of golf at a nice club for a present, and he took me along to play.  I enjoyed the outing because it was father-son time, but I did not play well.  I shot about a 187 (yes, you read that correctly) even though they don’t officially allow scores that high to be recorded.

After I retired from tennis in my early 20s, I actually went back to playing soccer.  I had played soccer from age 5, as did just about every other kid growing up at that time.  I think this is because it is one of the easiest sports to involve children in as a team exercise.  Usually someone’s dad acted as coach of the little soccer team, not because they knew anything about soccer, but rather that someone just had to go out and help supervise the kids and teach them about sportsmanship.

My dad certainly would kick the soccer ball with me and could guide me a little bit with technique, but it was clearly not his sport.  This is no surprise since most North Americans of his generation never played the sport.  Hence, it is not as if they were particularly interested in teaching their kid how to become a footballer.  This is quite the opposite in Europe, for obvious reasons.

My footballing career was rather slow to start.  I was actually a pretty good player as a youth, but when it came time to decide, I elected in favor of tennis.  Once I became less enthusiastic with tennis and turned back to football, I jumped into the fray with gusto.  I got even better at football as the years progressed, and interesting enough, by the time I was back living in Dallas as a 30 year old, I was playing on 3 or 4 teams around the city. 

My father and mother started coming to some games and eventually became our designated parental mascots of our indoor team that played at a soccer center not too far away from where they lived.  For almost 5 years, my folks came to about 80% of our games each Friday evening, whether they be at 5pm or 11h30 at night.  True, my father became more interested in the support through his understanding of the game, but also because he got to see me out on the pitch.

 

I appreciate that my father is naturally athletic, and I got a great deal of this athletic talent from him.  It had a lot to do with encouragement and together time, us playing sports together.  I liked having the exposure to different activities, and naturally (albeit naively) thought that everybody else’s dad was doing similar stuff with them.  It was so much more than simply learning how to throw and catch and jump and run and stuff.  Sportsmanship, working as a team, learning to follow your heart and push yourself to practice and get better, and to always give your best…all of these things started because my father took the time to play ball with me in the front yard.

I am pretty fortunate that my parents complimented each other in their areas of strength.  The whole time I was playing sports with my father during my childhood, I was developing the musical side of Bryan, helped extensively from my mother, who was the musical influence in our family.  Learning piano, singing in choir, playing French Horn; these are things that I did most often with my mother, but my father’s encouragement and support has been there from the get go.

I am not trying to make a huge point about how parents differ in their skill sets, but logic tells us that we tend to go to an expert for support on something.  Although I did not know it for the longest time, my father does not have much of an ear for music, so therefore never played any instruments or sang.  Thus, I did not go to him for anything other than love and support when needing assistance on learning a new piece of music or how to practice my scales on the piano or whatever.

As it were, my dad was who I went to for help on my math homework, while mom was the go to lady for grammar and the like.  It just sort of worked out that way.  Both of my parents have always been very encouraging, but have had the good sense to divvy things up as required.

In our family, my father was responsible for all the domestic odd jobs that needed to be attended to.  Again, I grew up thinking that this is what all fathers did in their households.  From a very early age, I was enlisted as a little helper, which, in the early days, meant that I was there to hold the light on whatever my dad was working on.  An extra set of hands proves to be most helpful in many situations, like lying under the sink trying to fix a small plumping problem. 

 

Sure, as I got older, I was not always keen on helping out when needed.  Sometimes I would just be sitting down to watch something on television or reading a good book when my father would call for my assistance.  I did not completely comprehend at the time that he was equally not interested in dealing with the task himself, but knew it had to be done.  I am quite sure that he never said to himself, “Lovely.  After I get home from work tonight I have to go and fix a backed up toilet,” right after receiving a call in the middle of the afternoon from mom informing him of the situation.

Like I said, it started with me holding the light, simply because I was an available resource with two more hands.  Over time, my dad taught me more than just the basics on various tools, so I was able to hand him the right sized wrench or screwdriver.  In most cases, I was simply the assistant.  However, my father really took the time to explain what he was doing, and how he was doing it.  There was plenty of humor flying around, although he might not have found everything so funny.  Sometimes the jobs got more complicated along the way, which generated a lot of frustration and impatience, especially when the 8 year old holding the light is distracted by just about anything else. 

It may not have simply been father-son time back then, but when I reflect on those experiences, I really better understand that my father was helping to development me, expose me to a lot of things that would become more significant as I got older.  I learned not only about how tools worked, but how to take care of the tools.  I learned how to plan a job, how to prepare things BEFORE starting, and how to think methodically.

 

This applied to doing the regular care of the lawn, where I learned to mow and edge and weed-eat, all under my father’s supervision.  These tasks might seem rather basic, but to actually do them right requires some patience, practice, and common sense.  Doing yard work became a nice little source of income for me when I was a teen-ager, as I was looking after the yards of many of our immediate neighbors.  I took pride in my work, and I would never have gotten there without my dad’s help.

I am particularly glad that I learned some valuable lessons over the years through these experiences.  One summer, I got to help out when we painted our house.  During summer holidays while I was in college, my dad employed me to paint the inside of a duplex that belonged to the family.  That was tedious work, and it took me longer than I initially thought.  My dad gave me more than a few pointers and hints, and I eventually got the task done. 

 

My dad seemed very adept at so many things: using soldering irons, doing house hold maintenance, understanding the finer points of yard work; I could really go on for hours about this.  In my experience, most of the other dads I knew from this time were doing similar things and seemed to know a fair amount, themselves.  True, both my grandfathers were also quite handy.  One time, my mom’s dad mentioned to me how impressed he was with my dad’s methodical approach to such handy work.  I did not recognize how big of a complement that statement really was at the time, since I was still under the impression that all dads could do this kind of stuff.  Fathers to the rescue, and all that. 

 

I once had a girlfriend who moved into a new apartment.  I was there to help with things, and then somehow the girl’s cat got stuck behind the washing/drying combo machine.  The girl became distraught, but instead of allowing me to help resolve the matter, she called her father.  He came over and did basically the same thing I was going to do.  (move the machine out of the way so the cat could crawl out – duh.)

More than once here in Germany, I have had female friends tell me about the lists of “to-dos” they had for their fathers on the next visit.  Dads of that era just seem to know how stuff works, whether it be how to take apart and reassemble furniture, hang light fittings, or simply get things organized.

My dad never made it out to sound like it was a “I am going to teach you something today,” experience, nor did he ever go out of his way to stress that it was father-son time.  It just was.

 

I learned a ton, and enjoyed it at the same time.  I really liked the fact that I learned not to feel completely helpless with a lot of situations; I could resolve them myself.

This is not saying that my dad could do anything and everything (it just seemed so).  One of the more valuable lessons was recognizing when you need to reach out for help.  Sometimes the task is too big for just one person. 

My parents started taking vacations on their own while I was in college.  I was left to house-sit while they were gone.  One of the first times, my father went through the checklist with me, showing me the contact numbers for the AC repairman, the right man for complicated plumbing things, etc.  My dad also reminded me of which neighbors to go to for assistance.  Some of our neighbors were particularly handy, while others couldn’t differentiate between a flathead or Philips screwdriver. 

 

At this point, I realized a couple of things: one, not all dads are equally capable on the handyman front, and two, it is OK to ask for help.  Both of these things are completely OK.

Just a few years ago during a stateside visit, the electric stove shorted out when my father accidentally spilled water onto the starter.  After a little troubleshooting, he attempted to try to remove one of the burners.   This turned into a bit of a deal, as almost immediately one of the screws got stripped.  Neither my father nor myself was quite ready to give up (despite my mom saying every 10 minutes, “Sam, call somebody.”) but eventually we recognized that the task was beyond us.

A day later, the repairman came, and gave a thorough explanation of what happened, and interestingly enough, gave the reasons why we weren’t able to fix it ourselves.  Apparently the design was not the best and this type of problem had occurred countless times for other customers.  Both he and I learned quite a bit, and were rather glad that we had not continued the fruitless task of trying to fix it.  We only would have further damaged the thing and made the repair more expensive. 

A certain element of thrift does enter the picture.  Why pay someone to do something that you can do yourself?  There are a lot of arguments on both sides, but from my father I learned a lot about the economics of it.  To me, it was really helpful to understand the value of a service so that I could determine whether or not I would pay for it.

Changing the oil in my car, for example.  My dad certainly showed me how to do this automotive task when I was younger, as he changed the oil in the family cars.  My first car was a VW, and when it was time for the first oil change, my father helped guide me through doing it myself.  Very quickly, he realized that a VW engine is much smaller than the American engines he was more used to working on.  This basically meant that everything was more compact; our hands were too big to get to the oil filter.  Long story short, my first oil change on my first car took quite a bit longer as we methodically solved the problem together.  I did change the oil myself a few more times before eventually deciding that I was willing to go to the JiffyLube and pay someone.

 

But, I am really glad I know how to actually do the job myself.  Likewise, I know how to iron a shirt fairly proficiently, but choose to take my stuff to the dry cleaners. 

When it comes to economics, my father took the time to teach me his approach to financial matters.  It took me a little longer to learn this lesson, but during the experience (which continues, by the way) my father also allowed me to learn a few of life’s more difficult lessons, too.  In addition to receiving a small allowance each week, my father did give the opportunities to earn extra money doing jobs around the house.  This is where I started my little lawn mowing venture.  I liked having money, and was always eager to earn more.  True, money also burned a hole in my pocket, so I had to learn to value just what I wanted to spend my money on.

At a church fund-raiser many years ago, I placed a bid in a silent auction for a basketball.  A few minutes later, my father came and found me and took me back to the table where the ball was sitting.  He asked me to take a look at the written description of the ball, particularly the “suggested retail value,” which was about 12 dollars.  He then went on to ask me to take another look at the bid I had placed.  My bid was several dollars higher.  He finally said, “I just wanted to give you the opportunity to understand what you are about to do.”

Fortunately, I did learn that brief lesson, but made my share of financial mistakes over the next 15 years.  Interestingly enough, my father would allow me to make the mistakes up until a certain point, before finally stepping in and avoiding complete disaster.  For example, I got myself in some pretty hefty credit card debt during my 20s.  My father blew his top when he found out, but he also took the time to go through things with me, help me understand the impact of 21% interest rates, and helped get me on a payment plan.

Again, I still had a bit of problem with the hole I kept burning in my pocket.  My father admitted that when he was my age, he, too, spent every penny he was earning.  Finally, though, you come to your senses, learn from the mistake, and become a better person for it.  At the end of my 20s, I was debt free, and all the happier for it.  My father didn’t solve my problem for me.  Instead, he helped me understand how to solve my problem.  25 years later, I remain debt free and forever thankful for the lesson he taught me.

My dad is not what I consider to be over protective.  He made sure to help me understand when to use caution, but he also made sure (perhaps not always deliberately) that I be given an opportunity to learn things on my own.  That way, I would be sure to truly learn the lesson.

One time I was playing with a football in the backyard, punting the ball up in the air and catching it when it came down.  Contrary to darker colored attire most people see me wearing these days, I was wearing red jeans and a matching red jacket.  My father was sitting on the patio watching me play, and probably noticed that I was pretty close to some mud.  When I slipped and fell, I managed to get mud on just about every article of clothing I was wearing.  He didn’t say, “You should be more careful,” he simply let me find out for myself.  He did suggest that we remove my clothes before going back inside, so as to avoid trekking mud into the house.

Around that same time, my dad gave me a Swiss army knife as a souvenir from his recent trip to Europe with mom.  I had already been shown a little about how to whittle, but neither of us was expecting me to have the knife slip on the stick I was carving and cut the bejesus out of my finger.  I started bleeding profusely, which was very alarming.  My father promptly took me inside and ran cold water on my cut, all the time telling my distraught mother (and me, for that matter) that I was going to be OK.

 

Dad truly understood that accidents would be happening, but we would get through them.  This reassurance was most comforting to me.

 

Another time, we were splashing around in a swimming pool at choir camp, and things got a little out of hand.  My attempts to splash my father were nothing compared to the tidal waves he was sending my way.  I caught a mouthful of water, starting choking and panicking, and dad wisely got me to a more shallow area of the pool.  Everything was OK

.

As a child, I was very concerned about our house burning down.  My father put me to bed one night and we discussed this, and he pointed out that in the extremely unlikely event that our house caught on fire, the first thing he would be doing is running into my room and breaking the window so that I could get to safety.  His words were again so comforting.  It never even occurred to me that I might get cut on a shard of glass while jumping out of the window, but it would not have mattered.  Dad would be there, and everything would be OK

.

This feeling of security was always there.  One of my first childhood memories was lying in bed somewhere in Colorado on a family vacation.  Mom and Dad were tucking me, and my father brought out the squirrels, which were rolled up socks that he used to sort of tickle me with.  It was cozy and everything just seemed right in the world.

I never liked going upstairs on my own as a child, but if dad was there, everything was OK.

If my sister or I encountered a problem as a child, he would help find a solution.  One of the few times we had snow, we wanted to go outside and play and sled and stuff.  We did not have snow boots, but dad tied plastic bread sacks around our shoes in effort to protect our feet and shoes from the cold and wet.  This did not go as well as anyone would have liked, as both of us soaked our shoes as soon as the plastic sacks broke, which was almost immediate.

 

Sure, we played, then got cold and wet.  Upon returning home, dad took us upstairs to the heater that was the perfect size for us to warm our feet with.  Problem solved and order restored. 

 

Learning to ride a bike?  Easy when dad was involved.

 

Need to go to the gross bathroom(outhouse) on a camping trip in the middle of the night?  No problem, dad just had me stand on his boots while I pinkeled into the hole. 

 

Even if an activity had a certain element of danger associated with it, it seemed to be OK if dad was there.  I am not sure if today’s kids still play Mumblety-peg, and after consideration, they probably shouldn’t.  Still, I am glad my father taught me to play.  It was not just about throwing a knife at someone’s foot, it was how to do so carefully and without intending to harm someone.

 

Although I am not a fan of guns and do not really like hunting, I am still glad that my father taught me about gun safety and took me on a few hunts.  The time together was very meaningful, and I suspect that he wasn’t as disappointed with me not being interested in hunting as he was sorry that we just did not have that time in the outdoors together. 

 

We did a fair amount of stuff in the outdoors with Indian Guides, though I think it is called Y-Guides, now.  Additionally, we mostly camped during our family vacations.  Learning the finer points about doing things in the outdoors is again something I grew up thinking everyone else was experiencing, too.   Learning how to pitch a tent, start a campfire, and simply appreciate nature are things I don’t think I would have learned without the influence of my father. 

My appreciation for early morning comes from him, also.  While camping, we would regularly be the first ones up, as my mother and sister are not really early risers.  During our family trip to California, we stayed in motels, where dad and I would share one bed, my sister and mother the other.  I was wiggly and tended to kick, but in fairness, I think most 9 year olds tend to be like that. 

 

Still, my dad was patient and forgiving.  I really liked waking up early with him each morning to go out and scout things out.  We would find a place for us to eat breakfast, but really it was early morning time together just enjoying the moment.

We still enjoy our mornings together when I visit the states.  My first few days are spent getting over jetlag, but there is just something really enjoyable about sitting outside with a cup of coffee at 6am with my father, enjoying the warmth of the chiminea.

 

I always appreciate the extent that people share common interests.  When very young, we tend to mimic the behavior and likes/dislikes of our biggest influences, which typically are going to be family members.  As a four year old, my nephew came into the kitchen to find me preparing a coffee.  I was only wearing a towel around my waist, as I had just gotten out of the shower.  He promptly raced out of the room, took off all his clothes, then returned with the matching hand towel wrapped around his waist.

 

“Somos gemelos!” he exclaimed, proud that he was like his uncle.

 

True, I liked the SMU football team (and all the other sports) because my dad likes them.  But, more importantly, I learned to appreciate what it means to be a fan of a team.  We would go early to the games to watch the team warm up, and we would always stay to the end, even if our team was getting beaten. 

 

Sometimes the common interests are very straight forward.  We are all avid readers in the family, but dad, Lynne and I all still regularly trade mystery novels with each other.

 

Likewise, we all seem to enjoy playing chess from time to time.

 

My father taught me about weight-lifting as a pre-teen, and to this day, we both are still pretty enthused about throwing weights around in the gym. 

Of course, I understand that he gave me an opportunity to experience these things without any conditions of whether or not I would also like to do them.  After all, the key message was not that I needed to like doing it because HE likes to do those things.  I never quite got enthused about chopping wood, which is something he really enjoys.

I do like finding out when I share something in common with my father without consciously knowing about it.  Once, we were pumping gas into the car, and I commented that I quite liked the smell of gasoline.

“Me, too,” he replied. 

 

My father and I also share a similar appreciation for somewhat off-color humor.  For example, we both tend to chuckle when we see someone get racked in a movie or in a game on TV.  In fairness, I think just about all males react this way, simply because of personal experience.  The laughter is a way of saying, “thank goodness that did not happen to me.”

Interestingly enough, I don’t have so many childhood memories of him breaking out into hysterical laughter.  I hold a fair ability to say things around the dinner table which struck my mom and sister as being quite funny; with regularity either my sister or my mother (sometimes both) might laugh hard enough to make milk come out of their nose due to something I said.  Meanwhile, my father would continue eating calmly, waiting for the others to get themselves back under control.

I always wondered about this, so on the occasions when I did see my father break into uncontrollable laughter, I really found it neat to see.

I think my father would admit that he is not the most patient man in the world.  With impatience comes a certain amount of frustration and anger.  My sister and I, as siblings do, could regularly get into arguments with each other, which ultimately led to dad getting upset.  Once during a family trip to Mexico, we were standing waiting to be seated at a restaurant after having spent the day at the beach. We were all sunburned, particularly my father.  Lynne and I got to pressing each other’s buttons to a point where my dad became quite angry.  He turned a color of red that reminded me of what happens to cartoon characters when they get burned or eat something spicy; we realized just how angry he was.

It seemed that I had a knack for testing my father’s patience.  As a student in high school, out of boredom I started underperforming with my school work.  This inevitably led to a few phone calls from my teachers to my father to discuss matters.  These calls led to some heated discussions at home between my father and me, most of them simply because everyone (the teachers, my parents, myself) knew that I was more than capable of doing the work, and was actually just showing signs of rebellion.  Again, sometimes I thought I was in a cartoon, as my father tended to get pretty red in the face. 

I fortunately did not have to see his immediate reaction when I got my ear pierced.  I was driving out of the alley and he passed me coming the other way.  Apparently my mom had to go through quite some lengths to calm him down. 

This is something that I found quite comforting with my parents; they were able to complement each other.  Mom’s quiet and calming nature was able to help soothe my father in such situations that required this balance. 

Of course, mom was always a worrier, so things could work in both ways.  Not long after graduating from college, a friend and I stayed all night without bothering to call mom at home (where were living) to inform her.  We strolled in sometime the following morning to find her distraught; she had not slept the entire night as she worried about where we were.  My father was on a business trip at the time, so we only (initially) spoke by telephone.  I was somewhat relieved at the time that he was out of town, because I could hear just how red he was in the face as he gave me an earful for upsetting my mother and disrespecting the rules we had at home. 

Despite the anger and impatience, there was never any physical anger displayed towards anyone.  One time dad was helping me pump up a basketball with a foot pump.  As he was still attaching the needle to the ball, I enthusiastically started stepping on the pump, managing to almost pinch his finger off.  True, this was not a deliberate act to hurt my father, but to deal with hurt and rage, he proceeded to kick the side of our house repeatedly.  Meanwhile, I looked on in dismay, realizing what I had unintentionally done. 

Another time, my father was driving the family on a coastal highway during our trip to California.  A large truck roared by and managed to make our car start hydroplaning all over the road.  The weather was rainy, the roads obviously wet, and my father really had to fight to regain control of the car.   Once he had control and the situation was over, he pulled us over to side of the road.  He had to, simply because it was such a holy shit moment where we thought we were going to go off the cliff. 

 

Sure, I learned a few new vocabulary words that day, and it was really several years later before I fully comprehended the severity of that incident.  At the time, I remember thinking, “Gosh, Dad got really angry and upset just now, yelled a lot, and still managed to keep under control.”

It was really a very heroic moment, and while I do not want to over-dramatize it, it still remains a very significant memory.  Years later, I still wonder just what emotions he was feeling on that day.

Emotions are funny.  My childhood recollections of how my parents behaved emotionally were sort of split.  If someone asked me which of my parents had an angry temper, I would say my father.  Likewise, it is my mother who comes to mind when asked which parent is “emotional.”  This really comes down to how emotions are expressed, and the perceptions I had as a child. 

I tend to get weepy just by watching a commercial about a little kid finding a puppy, and regularly cry during films.   This never really surprises me, because my mother was always like this.  The first time I ever saw my father actually cry was when he returned from putting our dog Sherlock to sleep.

 

This all comes down to perception of how people express their emotions, and as I have gotten older I recognize that I am pretty evenly a combination of my parents.  I am well aware that I have a temper, just like I know that I am a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve.  As an adult, I have a better understanding on how and when we express our emotions, and how people will always express their emotions differently.  Just because someone does not cry in their grief, this doesn’t mean that they are not sad.  Likewise, just because you don’t laugh until milk comes out of your nose does not mean that you didn’t think something was funny.  Most importantly, I believe this is totally OK.

 

Throughout my life, I am still amazed and proud to see how much I am like my father.  I liked playing tennis because my dad played it, too.  At church, as soon as I was old enough to be an usher with him in the balcony, I took great pride in doing so.  I had an interest in drafting and architecture, so was quite pleased when I got to use my dad’s drafting tools on my work table.  It comes as no surprise to me that, like him, when writing something by hand, I print rather than use cursive.

As much time as my father has spent volunteering and staying involved in service projects over the years, I am still proud and honored when I hear the compliments, both directly or indirectly.  One year, I was helping out at our church for a Christmas event for people in need. That particular year, my parents were not present because they were visiting my sister.  Meanwhile, the whole day I was helping at the event, people regularly came up to me to express their appreciation.  More than one of them went out of their way to mention that they were particularly reminded of how my father and mother were always giving the time for such an important event. 

Like many other children, I got to visit my dad a few times at his work.  Years later, my father and I have discussed our careers, our challenges, our successes, and the interaction with colleagues and customers.   Our experiences are remarkably similar. 

 

Although I still have many more working years before I will get to retire, I often think back to an earlier point in my career, just when things were starting to take off for me.  I was located in Massachusetts at the time, and my father was doing business in the area, so we made plans to meet up and go to dinner.  In the hotel bar, I was having an early beer waiting for him to come downstairs.  Two guys walked up to me and started chatting.  First, they pointed out that they recognized me as my father’s son, then pointed out that he was their boss.  Then, they went on to tell me just how great a manager and  man that he was.  Both guys were maybe 6-8 years older than me, old enough to have some experience under their belts.  It was one of the proudest moments in my life, hearing this kind of feedback.  I didn’t really have any direct reports at the time, but was still approaching my job in a similar fashion.  The positive feeling was:  I have a great role model and I am on the right track. 

For the longest time, I was slow to realize that as much as I am like my father, this meant he would be familiar with experiences of a guy (any guy, not just me).  This may seem rather naïve, but that’s the way it was.  Upon turning the legal age to drink alcohol, my sister announced one day that she would be headed off to a single’s bar.  My father promptly responded, “No you will not!”

My sister was still living at home during this time, but the crux of the matter was that my father was not ready to permit my sister to simply go out to a bar on the grounds that this suggested that she would be picked up.  At the time, I was not quite old enough to fully comprehend the significance of this, but once I was old enough to go into similar establishments, I totally understood why he said what he said. 

About the time I was realizing that he was once a single guy, also, it dawned on me that my father probably knew just about all the tricks I had been playing myself over the years.  Why? 

Because he had most likely done most of those tricks already, himself. 

We certainly share similar appreciation to the opposite sex.  During a visit to my folks a few years ago, we all watched a few episodes of a television series that involved an attractive Australian woman who was a private detective.  At the end of the show, my dad said, “Hey, that girl looks like Nadja,” and I almost laughed out loud, since I had been thinking the exact same thing. 

Another time, a friend of mine pointed out that he noticed that my father tended to smile a lot at women he found attractive.  It was my friend’s way of recognizing that my father showed a tendency to be intimidated by beauty, just like I am.  In fairness, this happens to a lot of guys in the world.  My buddy Bennett and I were once at my local in Dallas, along with his father.  The barmaid was really nice and friendly and beautiful.  Bennett got to a point where he almost had to hide under the barstool, the woman was so pretty.  I was kind of thankful that Bennett’s dad was there to joke about it with his son, since it deflected things from me.  You see, I was feeling almost exactly like Bennett was, too.  Come to think of it, I still have similar experiences at the local in my neighborhood. 

Fortunately my father got over any shyness he might have had, going on to be happily married for over 50 years.  During that time, I got to see the romantic side of my father:  how he picked out special clothes for my mom that he thought would look nice on her, how he always called once a day while traveling on business, how he always looked forward to coming home to his family, both as a husband and as a parent. 

Sometimes I think about all the experiences of my childhood and realize that as much as I was appreciating the experiences, I was also taking things for granted.  When you grow up in a safe, loving environment, you assume that everything is always okay.  I had the impression that my dad always knows what to do, always knows the right thing to do.  This does not come without ups and downs, but as I grew older and became friends with my father, maturity helped me put things in better perspective.  My father took an active role in my upbringing, making sure to be there for me, not because he had to, but because he wanted to

. 

I am proud to be friends with my father, and very proud to be proud OF my father.

The other week I telephoned a family friend who was in hospital.  She has always been like a second mother to me, but we had not spoken together in quite some time.  During our conversation, she told me about a chat she had had with my father soon after he returned from visiting me this past May.  She told me that my dad had really expressed just what a great trip he had in Germany, particularly simply spending time with me.  I laughed out loud with my friend on the telephone. “That’s really cool,” I said to her. “For the next months after dad was here, I was telling everyone here how much I had simply enjoyed hanging out with him.”

It doesn’t get much better than that.  Who am I?  I am Sam’s son.  And I am so glad that he’s my dad.

Thanks, Dad.  I love you.

See you out there

Christmas 2018