You are not likely to find him hunched over a book this Father's Day, nor will you catch him sitting in his chair watching golf or whatever sport is being futilely paraded across the television this Sunday on account of all of the real sports being done until August. He will more than likely not sleep in, basking in the accomplishment of a week survived and allowing his body a brief respite from the toil of another 80 hour work-week; no, the smart money will be on him rising before the sun, shoveling muck from the car-wash, doing those things at his place of business that just cannot be fit into the brief confines of 6 full days of weekly work, or cooking 'M' or 'T' shaped pancakes for the kids, who will undoubtedly be up long before expected. Father's Day will most assuredly resemble 'Sunday', plain and simple Sunday for my dad.I had the distinct pleasure , and I use no hyperbole of expression in saying so, a few weeks ago of witnessing once again this man in his element, a trip long overdue. Like many, if not most of the defining moments of my young adulthood, this one came unexpectedly. The plan was simple, selfish and graciously thwarted. With Julie and I moving to a much smaller living space, there came the dilemma of how best to fit hundreds of books without creating floor to ceiling chaos. In a condensed version, Dad and I decided to build 9 ft. bookshelves to cover the longest wall in the apartment. He is a woodworking extraordinare, and I am a willing participant (seeing as I am for all intensive purposes jobless for a few months), so we designed an elaborate and top-rate shelving system, complete with a rolling ladder. I trekked to my hometown to build this monstrosity, but I left with something else entirely.
It took no more than a few hours to remember what Dad's life consists of: busyness. He rises early, works on his feet all day long, juggles wife's, kids', employees' and customers' needs for 10 hours, coaches 7-8 year-old baseball, though one can hardly call what I witnessed at those games baseball - let's just call it hot-kids-running-around-with-gloves-and-bats, to be more accurate - and then he goes home long enough to eat dinner, read to the kids and go to bed, preparing himself for the eternal recurrence of the same on the proceeding day.
Mercifully for him, the project did not come to fruition; it was abandoned two days and a mere three or four hours in, and I left disappointed, not in the lack of shelves constructed, but in my forgetfulness. Somewhere in the shuffle of schools and jobs, study and toil, family and far too much 'me', I failed to remember where I came from and whom I am to thank for who making me, me (though I question whether he would want credit most days).
I generally loathe sentiment, it all comes out much too trite, but tonight is the exception to my rule.
This Father's Day, I remember:
...that he has worked everyday of my life the same as he does now, so that I might be afforded the opportunities to succeed that have been given to me.
...that he let me fail just enough to allow for growth, but not so much that I might not recover.
...that he taught me to throw a ball and run like a boy, which has saved me from much embarrassment (now it's time to get to work on Mickey).
...that he bought me my first guitar and let me crank it up at all hours of the day and night.
...that he made me get up on Saturday mornings to pick up trash outside of the store (torturous, but I learned the value of work on those hot days).
...that, though he knew we would regret it, bought an old Mustang anyway, because I had my heart set on it.
...that he never took a drink of alcohol nor cursed in my presence...I cannot say the same.
...that he never made me cut my hair, change my clothes or take out my piercings - he knew how stupid they looked, and I guess he trusted I would too one day....and I do.
...that he has never made a derogatory comment about my mother to me.
...that he sat across from me in his truck in Denton and let me cry my eyes out...and that he cried too.
...that it only took one punch from his giant hands to stop me from sparring with him.
...that he used to fall asleep while running sound at church, but to this day won't admit it.
...that, in my last three years of living with him, we must have eaten meatloaf 1 billion times.
...that he gave me the greatest gift of all: the love of chips and hot sauce.
...that he could-not/cannot sit down in his recliner without falling asleep.
...that he embraced my wife as family from the first time he met her.
...that, despite the demands of his business, he never missed a football game I played in...and he would not let me leave his side until we talked about what went right and wrong in the game...man, I hated that.
...that he disregarded maintenance of his truck, even those radical things like changing the oil, choosing rather to run one into the ground, then get another.
...that he instinctively rubs the back of his neck when angry or frustrated, as if God were allowing those in his path a bright neon sign, reading: Run!! - this trait is apparently hereditary, because it has begun to manifest itself in me as of late...comical, at the least.
...that he defined in a million ways for 27 years what a father is.
Thank you, Dad, I love you.
