Fathers' Day

Today is Fathers’ Day, and it falls bittersweet. It will be 2 years in July when we had to bury him, but his legacy and memory live on as strong as ever. While I couldn’t call him up today and chit chat about cars and laugh with him about the general dysfunction that the American auto industry is flailing through (with the exception of Ford), I still talked to him.

All day.

About how good it made me feel when he visited Shannon and I a few years ago in what was an obviously 2 bedroom apartment with one bed. The other bedroom was filled with computer junk and a very uncomfortable couch. He never batted an eyelash. As long as I was happy, so was he.

He’d known or suspected my sexuality for a long time, but never asked any questions or seemed to care one way or the other. That was his greatness: he didn’t care about a lot of things. Just if someone, child or not, was a good person who was carrying his or her own weight and helping out others when he could.

I called Daddy the night I bought our car in February 2007. He thought I bought a good car (it’s a Ford) and got a good deal. Both are true, but his approval made it all the more important. The Daddy seal of approval was always the highest honor we could attain.

Not that he was that hard to please.

One of my most vivid memories of childhood (a kind of Mayberry moment) was him coming home late one Friday afternoon in the summer after having worked all day 60 miles away with candy bars in his pockets. My sister and I got to choose a pocket, and we kept what we found. I don’t know if I got a Baby Ruth or a Three Musketeers, but I know it was good.

Like I said, it’s been a bittersweet day. Remembering a man I love but can’t call up and talk to when I want.

I’ll keep what I have: memories about and stories of the greatest man I’ve ever known.

Happy Fathers’ Day, wherever you are. When you were in the hospital there at the last, I could see my new car from your room. I was hoping you’d at least get to see it.

No matter. Trust me: she’s good. She looks like a cat getting ready to pounce even when she’s sitting still. Her name is Baby. And Baby gets good mileage when I let her, but she doesn’t mind getting up and going, either.

You’d be proud, Daddy. I am. Of the both of us.