Waiting, Watching, "Weining" and Whooping!

Nope, I am not particularly proud of this latest post title.  Then again, I am not proud of not getting a post written in the past two months.  Excuses?

Well, I can fumble around and say things like, "Things were lousy at work," or "I thought I was going to get laid off,"  (note - simply removing the last word of that sentence brings a whole new context)  or "I just got frustrated by all the happenings in the world."  And so on.

But I don't think I could really (or would really) call them excuses.  I simply did not post because I did not feel it.  Countless times I had multiple topics floating around and I spent several afternoons trying to come up with a clever post...and kept falling short.  Basically, I was trying to hard. 

I have always considered myself relatively patient, but sometimes I notice that I (or anyone for that matter) end up waiting for something to happen that I cannot possibly influence and do so at the expense of actually doing something that I can influence.  This can lead to a fair amount of negative thoughts, and I certainly had my share of those over the course of February and March.  The work situation has been rather miserable for the past half year, but became extra crappy lately as I lived through several lay-offs at our company, along with dealing with the uncertainty of the job future, which also brought a lot of guilt, demotivation, and other unpleasant emotions.  Neat. 

The frustrating thing about this for me has been the simple fact that I allowed the situation to get the better of me a few times.  Rather than sitting there thinking, "what if, what if?" I should have been saying, "who gives a shit...it's time for a new start!"   I think I could have done that a little bit better over the past weeks. 

That being said, I have been playing around with the positive thoughts and experiences, and I should have probably shared those via posts sooner rather than trying so hard to make them into some sort of hoopy doopy cute post. 

For example, I have been consuming a lot of celery during the first three months of 2019.  No, I elected to skip the v-blog and all that (you can find those easily enough and those people who make them are really really happy. apparently.)  and instead, I have just been allowing my body to cruise right along and get used to the new sensation.  Indeed, there are some great benefits and my body appreciates it quite a bit.

Overall, I have been cooking a bit more than in previous months, including new efforts to make home-made salsa.  Sometimes the needed peppers are not so readily available, which is irritating.  There is a Dutch company who does offer a little assortment of peppers in my market, but the (unfortunately) key word is little assortment.  Spicy peppers are not high on the typical German shopper's list, so there is not much space offered in the produce section.  For the 5 or 6 of us who like super spicy stuff and frequent the grocery store, we all seem to be jockeying for whatever is on the shelf at the time.

Like peppers, soft tortillas are not available in particularly large quantities.  I will concede that maybe one full grocery aisle is a bit extreme, but that is what I tend to experience in the city where I come from. 

I had a little discussion about this with a Mexican-American friend of mine here in Frankfurt.  We both got to talking about Mexican food and how much we missed it.  My friend went on to express that he thought he might be feeling homesick, and I recognized the feeling.

When I go through a rough patch, I do tend to think about close friends and family and inevitably the thoughts go back to when I was younger.  I always can take comfort from those thoughts, but sometimes you get a little pang as you think about some great meal, or some restaurant you would always go to with friends or whatever.  Damn, I just got to thinking about Uncle Julio's and a swirl. 

I shared a song with my buddy that I have been playing on piano for probably 30 years.  It is a song from one of my favorite pianists and is titled "Hometown."  This was kind of a first for me, since it is almost certainly the only track where I play and sing, and it is definitely the only singing track that I have shared with anyone. 

Indeed, I felt quite humble when he gave me some nice compliments; initially he did not realize that it was me singing and playing.

On the overall music front, some guys have been meeting up most Wednesday evenings to have a little jam session.  They tend to play Irish fiddly music, but the banjo player and guitar player have quite the ability and have gelled together in recent months.

The other week they did a rather inspiring cover of my favorite Waterboys' tune, and that compelled me to start working on my own arrangement of the song.  It feels good, and that is what is most important. 

I try to spend a few minutes each day to work on my effortless mastery, a concept for playing (and living).  It is all about feeling things and not getting so caught up in trying so hard.  Music is always easy. 

In short, I want to cry if I feel like crying, whether it be a sad movie that touches me or if it is because I put too much habanero in my salsa.  But if I don't feel like crying, that is OK, too.

Bring on April and bring on the springtime weather.  I mailed the tax return off today and with a little luck, it will arrive back to the proper stateside address before the deadline. 

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go picture a rainbow.

see you out there
bryan

A Morning of Vicks and Furs

For the past several days I have been doing my best to fight off a cold.  It's been a struggle, but I am getting through. 

Like most people, I do not enjoy the experience of having a cold.  I get really frustrated, irritated, and absolutely don't want to be around others.  Part of me feels a little pitiful, but most of me is simply angry.  And stobbed ub.

I had been really relieved so far in the season to avoid any real ailment.  My father was snorting a bit for a few days over Christmas, and my nephew and brother-in-law also suffered through colds during the holiday break.  I managed to skip all of that, and figured all my efforts to stay healthy were paying off.

By mid-week, I was rather congested.  It's unrealistic to believe that I wouldn't catch a little something at some point, and I was grateful that I was not feeling completely wiped out like I have endured with past colds.  I checked my medicine cabinet, and found my little jar of Vick's vaporub, which was almost empty, and seemed to have expired sometime in 2016 or 2017. 

I will make a small comment about expiration dates, here.  With food, I tend to get pretty antsy when the expiry date is nearing, particularly with things like milk and eggs.  Still, I usually allow for a couple of extra days in the fridge, and know pretty much that I could even extend that time further.  It's more of a conditioning thing, and we always tend to remember when we drink sour milk.  God help us in the event that we eat some eggs that were past their edible moments.

Over the holidays, my father said, "it will be fine," when I protested about using butter that seemed to have an expiration date from quite a while back.  (I'll spare anyone's blushes by not specifying the date itself.)

And he was right.

For the longest time, I never even realized that certain medications and over the counter drugs had any sort of expiration.  In fact, I probably would not have thought anything about it, but a few months ago, my nephew was unwell and took an ibuprofen or something from the medicine cabinet at my Dad's.  Somehow my sister noticed the sell by date was "quite a while back," which sent my nephew off the rails.  He truly thought he would suffer some horrible fate for having taken a pill that was as old as he was. 

Of course, my father said, "it will be fine." 

And he was right. 

Since my little container of vaporub was empty, the expiration date was irrelevant.  I went to the Apotheke in my neighborhood to pick up another little jar, which made for an interesting exchange.
In Germany, the brand name Vick's is Wick.  I assume that this is because of how W is pronounced in German.  And how V is pronounced, come to think of it.

This still creates just a little bit of momentary confusion for me when I have to say either of these letters out loud.  But, the lady at the shop understood what I wanted, and offered me one of two sizes:  small or large. 

The largest size was double the physical amount of the small size, but not really double the price.  That was fine, because the price for the container was already on the high side, at least in my opinion.  Not that I had any other options, and it's not as if people run around and say, "Dang, they've got a special price on for Vick's Vaporub right now at the local shops!" 

You just pay for the product and go on your way.  Which is exactly what I did. 

Later that afternoon, I was speaking with my father and I asked him what the going rate was for Vaporub in the states, and he went and got his container from his nightstand.  The container looked like it was from 1959, and my father confirmed that he had purchased the jar quite a while back...

And for the interested stateside reader, the going rate for Wick Vaporub in Germany is about 50% higher than you will find at your local Walgreen's.  Whatever.

So, I have spent my mornings this weekend with a pot of water boiling on my stove top, with a scoop of Vicks making for quite the vapors.  To add to the fun, I have been listening to the entire catalog of the Psychedelic Furs.  I am not sure if Richard Butler would approve, but he is not the one that has the cold, is he? 

And, I am feeling better.

Whatever works, right? 

see you out there
bryan

A Good Blip

This past week finished up a lot better than it started, but at a price.

On Monday evening, we resumed our Kioskabends, and while it was nice to see Papri (the Kiosk owner) again after her 3 week holiday, it was ridiculously cold.  Standing around outside became less and less comfortable.  It did not help much when passersby, mostly friends and Kumpels, made remarks like, "Guys, it's cold as shit outside, what the hell are you thinking?" 

No one wanted to be the first to admit that we are all feeling too cold, but after an hour and a half, we elected to finish our evening in the warmth of the pub.  However, because I saw a couple of friends there, I ended up staying out a wee bit later than a normal Monday night. 

My father had flown to Wisconsin to visit my aunt and uncle for the week.  He had been hoping for snow, and he was delighted to find half a meter accumulation upon his arrival, and another half meter on Tuesday.  We did a video call on Tuesday afternoon and I explained that we were having pretty chilly weather in Frankfurt, too, but I certainly understood that it was MUCH colder where he was.  When it gets to minus 23 degrees CELSIUS...

Throughout the next couple of days, my dad regularly posted photos of him playing in the snow, and I got a kick out of it.  Those of us that have less experience with winter weather tend to like those brief moments, especially since we know it will be brief. 

I spent most of my week staying cozy.  On Thursday, Frankfurt had about 20 minutes of snow, and I enjoyed watching the big flakes come down from my balcony, cup of coffee in hand.  That afternoon, I was delighted to get an email from a composer that I had written to earlier in the month.  During one of my little concerts for my grandmother over the holidays, she commented on how much she liked a particular piece.  She mentioned it multiple times afterwards, so I felt inclined to let the composer know.  His response was very gracious and it was a good feeling, so I spent quite a bit of time Thursday and Friday afternoon at the piano (in my cozy living room).

Friday evening, I ventured over to the pub with plans to watch the Arsenal FA cup match.  I was feeling a bit somber as I reflected on my parents wedding anniversary, but the company and the coziness of the pub was comforting.  It got extremely cozy as the pub filled up with more guests than usual on Friday evening (which, to be fair,  tend to be pretty full, anyway). However, Germany were playing in the semi-final of the Handball World Cup, and this is a pretty big deal in Europe.  This year, the tournament was being held in Germany, but regardless of that, people were out to view the game and root the team on. 

The problem was, there were already two football matches being shown at the pub.  This reduced the amount of screens available to show the Handball, which did not go over so well with all the folks who arrived to find a pretty packed pub.  Midway through the first half of the game, it started snowing heavily outside, which knocked out the satellite feed for the Handball.  The pub has about three different satellite boxes so as to be able to access and show various sporting events, particularly football from Britain, and a lot of the Irish sports.  The pub is not a sports bar, per se, but is definitely a place that people go to watch their games, myself included.  When a technical issue disrupts things, people start to get excited.  Fortunately, the outage was rather brief, and before too long, all matches were being shown as planned.

Despite the crowded pub, I had a place at the bar with a couple of friends.  This was a big match for Arsenal, but we all had low expectations.  The game was interesting until the second half, then we realized we would be crashing out of the cup.  Meanwhile, the group of fans that were watching the other football match had to live with a draw.  And, Germany ended up losing their Handball match. 

Result?  Most of the fans were all disappointed with the results, but being Friday night at the pub, the mood stayed pretty lively.  Maybe it was the fact that there was a little snow on the ground and we were all snugged up inside the warm pub.  Maybe it was just one of those great Friday nights where the crowd is in form.  Most likely, the alcohol helped.

In short, I really tied one on.  I completely lost track of time.  A friend tried 3 times to go home, and 3 times ordered another beer, instead.  It was already late, but rather than go home with the knowledge that I had already had 2 or 3 too many, I encountered a few more friends and yep, ordered another beer, myself. 

Looking back, it was a really good night.  No, I shouldn't have gone to the after hours bar for "another," but I am glad I went, just the same.  As I was getting into bed (erm, lying down on the couch) I noticed that it was going 4h30 am, and as my eyes closed, I thought to myself, "Ouch.  Tomorrow is going to be tough."

And indeed it was. 

Yesterday, I hardly left the sofa.  I reminded myself that I was no longer 23 years old and I would just have to suffer through the hangover.  Late in the afternoon, I rallied briefly and had a catch up call with my father before crawling back onto the couch to watch another film or two. 

During the evening, I started feeling a little better, and knew another nights sleep would set me right.  I did not beat myself up to bad.  After all, I rarely go on frantic pub sessions these days, and the previous evening had really been enjoyable;  the perfect mix of friends and acquaintances and good conversation.  This is precisely what makes pub time so great. 

So, maybe I did have to pay a bit of a price for a good evening, but it was worth it.   And the memory will tide me over until the next time. 

see you out there
bryan

Puddles, Puppies, Pals, and Piano - A Week of Happy Thoughts

Earlier in the week I read a blog post by Pete Townshend, who wrote about his dislike for the winter months; he can't wait for the days to get longer (and lighter outside).

I am aware that a lot of people tend to feel a bit down during the winter months, and I guess I have similar feelings from time to time.  Once the Christmas season has passed and everyone has finished wishing everybody a happy new year, people just wait for winter to finish.  Too many cold, grey days can start to get on one's nerves and emotions. 

True, it can get a little bleak at times, but I really like the contrast of extreme temperatures.  There is nothing quite like sitting with a cup of coffee in a cozy living room, especially after having just been outside in chilly weather.  One of the things I like about my neighborhood is seeing everyone simply going about their business despite the cold, even little kids.

It was a bit rainy last weekend, and was trying hard to snow, but in the end it was just more wet than white and fluffy.  One early evening, either Friday or Saturday, I was standing outside the pub collecting my thoughts when a little boy, no more than 2 or 3 years old, came whizzing by on his little riding toy.  Okay, maybe whizzing is a generous description; let's just say that he passed by with relative speed for his age.

He was riding a little toy that immediately reminded me of the Fisher Price Mobile Explorer that I had at his age.  I absolutely loved that thing, and raced around (as fast as my legs would propel me) everywhere on it.  This little guy was doing much the same thing, obviously out and about with his mother, who was walking a few steps behind him.  The rain had subsided, but it was still cold and wet.  Said little one was having a little conversation with himself, and I could hear his mother gently guiding him. 

Suddenly, he saw a small puddle, so abruptly stopped his motion, got off and ran to the puddle, then did a little dance.  He was wearing very small rain boots and was well bundled up.  And happy to be splashing in the puddle.

The mother kind of glanced at me as she headed over to her son, probably wondering why I had such a big smile on my face.  I was simultaneously having a very happy thought about my childhood and as well, feeling a lot of hope and happiness for the future generations.  It is always nice to see little kids enjoying themselves just for the sake of it.  The mother obviously felt the same way; she allowed him his little moment, and then he was ready to get back on his toy and ride on home.

During one of my next moments outside, I saw another similar scene, this time without any riding toy. Across the street was a somewhat larger puddle, but another little boy was walking home with his parents, and made a beeline for it as soon as he noticed it.  Again, he was properly dressed in rain boots and warm overcoat, and did a remarkably similar dance to the other little boy from earlier.  And the smile was just as big. 

Those little warm moments were enough to get my week off to a good start, and things continued in a good way when I encountered a little video of some golden retriever puppies all playing together.  In a puddle. 

If we have little happy moments like this, then winter seems like a really nice time, and not so dark and cold at all.

On the piano front, I had a really good week working on some new material, but also practicing some old favorites.  Recently I have been reading a book about effortless mastery, and one of the key points is to think "every note that I play is the most brilliant sound I have ever heard.  There are no WRONG notes."

Although the book is geared towards playing and performing music, I am recognizing a deeper meaning that affects other aspects of life.  It certainly helps on the self-esteem front.

We did not have any more rain at the end of the week, but it is still really cold.  I finished up my work week last evening, then headed over to the pub for a few quiet pints.  I was glad to see a friend who had been ill the past week or two.  We caught up on events (or lack of them) and it was a pleasant start to the weekend.  Although I probably had one too many beers (note - there is a prize for the reader who knows how many times I have written such a sentence in this blog) I went home and decided to watch a movie. 

It might seem a little odd that it has taken me so long to get around to watching The Intouchables, especially since I am huge fan of French film, and even more recently, a fan of the composer who contributed much of the music to the soundtrack.

Well, the film was definitely worth the wait.  Sure, it is a feel good movie, and that has only added to the happy thought collection of my week.  I struggled ever so slightly with the original version (French dialog) along with the German subtitles.  I will certainly watch it again very soon, likely with less beer. 

So, if this past week is any indication as to how winter is going to be, then I would say hey, let's have winter for several more months.

bundle up if you have to, but see you out there
bryan

Chuggabugs, Big Ger, and Another Gem from Ian

About 18 years ago, my father and I were discussing what we were reading at the moment, and he told me about the book he was just finishing;  The Falls, by Ian Rankin.

Trading books and discussing authors was nothing new in our family, as all of us are avid readers.  But, this particular story grabbed me immediately, and I was delighted not only to read another great book, but also to discover that there were several more books about the main character, a detective based in Edinburgh. In fact, this was the 12th book involving John Rebus.

At the time, my father was still traveling on business, so tended to pick up whatever struck his fancy at the airport news shop.  The Falls was his first experience with the author, so he was excited to know that there were more books to read.  My sister in Spain jumped quickly on board; she, too, was always on the lookout for a new good read.

This little discovery might seem insignificant, but over the next months as I back tracked and started reading the books in order, I realized just how strong the writing was.  To me, it was true literature, and it was quite a good feeling to find another author putting out quality material.  All too often in recent years I had been let down.  With this series, that is not the case.

I was personally trying to find an opportunity to move abroad during this period, so was really trying hard not to get in a habit of collecting stuff that would not be so easy to move.  This included books and CDs.  I allowed myself to be selective, and fortunately assembled my little collection of the first 12 John Rebus novels.  It was not long before Chris got into the spirit, and I was happy to loan him stuff from my Rankin library as he got caught up in the series.

Over the next several years, a few more books came out and we tended to include this as one of many discussion topics during our weekly Wednesday evenings at the Monk.  Pablo even got a bit intrigued, which was initially surprising.  He reads a lot, also, but often was more inclined to read periodicals as opposed to novels.

When I left Dallas for Spain, I left behind my little library of Ian Rankin.  There was no way I was going to give that up.  Instead, it would have to remain in storage until the time came when I had sufficient space for my books.  Of course, this did not stop me buying a few of the books translated into Spanish; what better way to continue improving my Spanish learning than by reading books from a favorite author?

Meanwhile, the little fan base that I had started back in Dallas continued.  In early 2007, I got a message from Chris indicating that he had met Ian Rankin at a book signing.  Sure, I was a bit envious, but receiving an autographed book a couple of months later with a personal "keep up the missionary work!" message meant the world to me.  I was still not sure if I was in Germany to stay, but I certainly realized that I needed to get all the books back on my shelves.  Rather than pay to ship my books from the states, I ended up visiting my local English language bookshop in Frankfurt to get a second set of the novels. 

Over the past decade, I have eagerly read (and re-read, as it were) the works of Ian Rankin.  In fact, I am proud to say that this is the first author where I have read the works not only in English, but also Spanish AND German.  Several friends here are also fans, and a couple have even visited Edinburgh and peeked in the Oxford Bar.  I am always glad when I see one of the books sitting on the shelf in the little neighborhood public library bookcase that sits out on the street in front of my flat. 

Last month, I received a message from Chris indicating that he had already ordered his copy of the latest John Rebus.  I made a mental note to check at the local bookshop during my visit to the states, and sure enough, after my inquiry at the Barnes and Nobel desk, I was informed that the new novel would not be available for another couple of weeks.  This explained why Chris had to pre-order his copy.

As I was leaving Dallas to return home, last Thursday, Pablo sent me a quick message of new years greeting, along with confirmation that he had just received his copy of the book. The following day, Chris sent me a similar message, showing me that his copy had just arrived.

30 seconds later, I had ordered my own copy, which arrived this past Monday.  Like always, I tried to savor the moment before launching in to the read.  That pretty much meant I lasted until Tuesday morning before starting.  It came as no surprise that it is another page-turner.  Thoroughly enjoyable to read, and it has helped get my 2019 off to a good start.

There are few things better than reading a good book.  Thanks, Mr Rankin.

see you out there
bryan

"I just flew in from Dallas and boy, are my arms tired!"

Nope, that joke never gets old for me, but saying it in German takes a little away from the goofy humor.

 My stateside visit over Christmas was really good; it meant a lot to me to spend time with family and friends.  As expected, the trip was emotional, but all the better to be together with everyone to share in memories, take time to reflect, cry a little, and laugh a lot.  The time flew by, and unlike other visits (which were always enjoyable, too, I must stress), I was somewhat sorry when the time came for me to board my flight back to Frankfurt.

I like how the spirit of the season allows me to dismiss minor annoyances with a chuckle.  For example, immediately upon my arrival in Dallas when I switched on my mobile, I received a nice text message from Lufthansa informing me that my luggage was delayed, and would not be on the baggage carousel.  In fact, I was not really too hacked when I was forced to wait until Sunday before they finally delivered my suitcase.  Hey, it's Christmas.

A couple of days later, I was in Target intending to buy some long johns.  I was only slightly dismayed when I discovered that they were out of stock of my size.  I was not thrilled at the thought of having to visit more stores, as I do not like to shop too much.  Fortunately, my sister was with me, and she, as always, rallied quickly to find a solution.  In this case, it was to grab a store employee, who promptly put in an online order for me.  Quick, convenient, and sort of a new concept for me.  I do not like shopping, as I just said, but despite the ease of  buying things online, I am fearful that we will eventually stop having brick and mortar stores. 

My father and I did have to visit a couple of department stores to complete the Christmas shopping.  Otherwise, there would not have been anything under the tree for me from my dad or my grandmother.  Dad and I share a similar indifference to shopping, aka browsing.  Unlike my sister and grandmother, who can spend hours just looking, we prefer to get in, find our item, and get out. 

I initially had thought I could find a couple of sweaters in Macy's, but when we walked into the store and felt like we were visiting a place that had just been hit by a tornado, I felt discouraged.  I did manage to find one sweater that I kind of liked, but was so put off by the condition of the store, that we elected to walk to the next department store in the mall.  Well, the contrast was amazing.  Sure, it was Nordstrom, after all, but the garments were well displayed, the staff were friendly, and I found a super sweater; probably the nicest sweater I would ever have.  Yes, it had a matching price, but hey, it's Christmas.

After we made the purchase, we returned to Macy's to pick up the second sweater (that I had already found), and true to form, we had a less than pleasant experience with the sales person, who looked and acted like they had just been at a skate park.   It was really no surprise to find that the security tag had not been removed from the sweater when I "opened" the gift on Christmas day.  Before I completely thrash said department store, I will concede that my quick visit to another location on Boxing day to have them remove the tag was friendly and pleasant.  Hey, it's Christmas.

My last post was actually one of the gifts that I gave my father for Christmas.  The week before Christmas, we had some good father and son time taking care of some unplanned household problems.  First, the sink in my bathroom started leaking.  It took three trips to the hardware store and a handful of swear words, but we eventually got the problem fixed. And yes, I got to hold the light for my dad while he played with the pipes under the sink. 

Neither one of us was ecstatic when we discovered that the water heater wasn't working, particularly since we noticed this on Christmas Eve.  Fortunately, my dad recognized the complexity of the task and called the repairmen, and by lunchtime, Geronimo and Jose had replaced the entire unit.  True to his sense of humor, my father put on a Santa hat and took a selfie in front of the new heater.  "Merry Christmas to me," he joked, only slightly wincing at the hefty sum he just paid.

A couple of days later, Chris and I shared a laugh about the recent incidents as he acknowledged my post.  Who would have guessed that a few weeks after writing about doing projects with dad, I would actually get to do them again?

And, when my father came and gave me a big hug after reading my story that I gave him, it pretty much made my Christmas complete.  I wasn't expecting him to tell me that it was one of the best presents he had ever received.  That means a lot to me.

The whole visit was special, and there are too many highlights to mention.   My grandmother's new place has a grand piano in the lobby, and I was lucky to get to play for her (and the staff, and other residents and guests) several times.   I was truly touched when the staff gushed with appreciation, and it certainly helped with my self esteem. 

All in all, it was a great way to end a pretty tough 2018.  We had our emotional farewells, and as always, I experienced my let down as I returned to my home in Frankfurt.  Fortunately I have had a quiet couple of days getting back into my routine, and it always helps to meet up with friends my first couple of nights back.  I am still feeling a bit jet lagged, and I have a few friends still to catch up with, but I am glad to be back in Germany. 

On Monday, the plumber will come to fix my leaky kitchen faucet, and I am quite sure that there will be many more little challenges (maybe big ones, too) in 2019.

But I am ready for them, and particularly ready to realize my potential.  Bring it on.

See you out there
bryan

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

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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

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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