Dad

Recently, Craig Wilson, one of my favorite writers, completed a USA Today column on his father. - or "Dad" - as he referenced him.

It was similar to his previous fine efforts . As usual, it appeared to be designed around one recurring theme. Here, it was a recently published advice book for dads. He weaved the theme in and out of his writing and brought it to it's usual amusing conclusion - tying everything together in one neat package.

His column caused me to examine what I would write about my late dad if asked to do so.

I lack Craig Wilson's talents, and also suffer fom a near fatal case of loquaciousness. Thus, I realized that a blog regarding my Dad would lack a central theme. So, I decided to use my usual "flow of the moment" approach.

This is the one where my more charitable friends and family members listen to me and conclude , "There must be a nugget in there somewhere, but I'll be darned if I can find it!"







Anyway, here goes:




There were so many different "Dads" in my lifetime; which is the one I seek to capture here?

Was it the one in the story I heard about Dad who often walked through the house in the middle of the night , carrying on his shoulder his young asthmatic son who had passed out from the lack of breath?

Could it be the same 5' 8" man, later, in his 70's who could still shake your hand with a bonecrushing grip - while looking you in your eye as he had instructed you to do?

Maybe it would be the Dad of that 3rd grader who had just dropped his Dad's expensive binoculars from the "crows nest" of the local Atlantic Avenue School's playground "monkey bars" , and watched them bouncing from rung to rung, finally striking a flat stone at the bottom?









The boy came home and sat rocking on the couch. He sobbed aloud to his unseen father who was ensconced in the bathroom, his usual hiding place. The boy , through copius tears, attempted to explain what had happened. He did this for what seemed like an eternity while Dad apparently was deciding upon the appropriate punishment for his son's careless act.







Dad finally emerged, pipe tucked in the usual place in the corner of his mouth and, a newspaper rolled up in his right hand. He stopped briefly in front of his cowering son still sobbing on the couch and stated: "It was my own dumb fault. I should never have given them to you to play with."







With that, he walked out of the room and never did mete out a punishment.




Perhaps it was the Dad who immediately prior to leaving the driveway, with his wife seated to his right in the family car, called out to his son who was resting on the porch over the garage ,"Could you bring me down a hankerchief from my sock drawer?"

In searching for the hankerchief, the son found the hankerchief/underwear pile. He also located 2 basic instructional manuals, in brown wrappers, on the subject of sexual terms and positions. The boy was thrilled and couldn't wait to return to the book's hiding place. Little did he know at the time it was Dad's unassigned reading assignment.




My wife, a well-educated Registered Nurse, still laughs at my mispronunciations of words gleaned from the two training manuals. I had only the written words in my education process.







Would the Dad we are seeking be the one who hit "flies" to me and my next older brother Jim, night after night in the softball field across the street? A photo of the three of us following the completion of one of our fielding practices remains one of Jim's favorites.




Could the real Dad be the one who, in his late 50s & early 60's - would stand out on the street in front of the house and catch ball with me? That is, until he wildpitched one over my head and I ran after it, attempting to stop the path of the ball with my foot before it reached the steep part of the hill.







As I chased - my Dad rested.







Dad wasn't about to admit he was tired, or that the wadded up hankerchief and sponge he hid in his glove needed to be adjusted to better absorb the strength of his rapidly maturing son's curveballs and "in-shoots" his father had taught him how to throw.







Could this also be the same dad who insisted that Jim and I had to accompany him to our little brother Tom's midget league football game, in the event he was able to get down to the weight limit and be allowed to play?




As you can see, there were many sides to my "Dad". These are the ones I chose for my rambling Father's Day message.







As I was growing up, my dad was my hero, idol, confidant, and best friend. My goal was to someday be just like my Dad ; someone who would take my side and protect me from my adversaries.

Later in life I found that Dad, despite all his strength, power, and wisdom, had to occasionally do battle with his own demons - just like most of us do.







It was not until the time of this progressive discovery that I started to do battle with my father. We never came to blows. That handshake still frightened me.







Some times the battle technique du jour was nothing more than the Irish male's second greatest weapon - "the silent treatment" - a technique my Dad had mastered to perfection, and at whose feet I studied vigorously.







He didn't seem to mind my growing displeasure and anger.







In fact, I had the feeling Dad was waiting for it.




Happy Father's Day, Dad