Happy New Year, everyone!
2024. I honestly can’t believe that we’re here already. Nine years after Marty McFly traveled to the future and twenty-four years since I accepted my high school diploma, opened it, and found a note from a teacher that said, “Fight me in the Raising Canes parking lot after graduation.”
I’d like to wish a very happy birthday to my dad, Bob, who turns…well, it’s his birthday, and he has the mental acuity and wit of a young Mark Twain. Dad shares his birthday with none other than Elvis Presley, something from which he derives great joy as the oldies station usually dedicates January 8th to playing classic Elvis tunes.
I learned many things from my father over the years. Money management wasn’t exactly one of them, but he impressed upon me that money comes and goes, and it’s important to be the same person whether you’re flush or busted. Growing up, we weren’t rich but far from poor. I never knew how much money Dad had in the bank, but whatever the number was, he was always kind.
Dad taught me to sit in a restaurant with my back to a wall facing the entrance because “that’s what mob guys do.”
He taught me the finer points of golf, and while he says he never learned to compress the ball at impact the way pros can, the ease with which he played the game, whether he was scoring well or shanking them all over the course, showed me temperance.
My father and I share the same disdain for authority, especially when said authority reveals themselves to be willfully incompetent, and it’s gotten us in our fair share of trouble. We both know how to play the game, but sometimes the ineptitude becomes too much, and we share with our bosses what we think of them and get a permanent vacation. Much like Russian prisoners with tattoos of stars on their knees, we refuse to kneel.
One thing I don’t share with my dad is his love of Sci-Fi Channel original movies. I can’t with those movies, but I do enjoy watching him watch them. I’ll open the door to his man cave and say, “Hey, Dad, whatcha watchin’?”
“Oh, it’s a classic, ‘Mansquito.’ It’s about a guy whose DNA gets spliced with a mosquito.”
Then I’ll say something like, “Sounds like it sucks,” and he’ll say something like, “This is cinema.”
Dad taught me that being gentle can show strength. He taught me how to respect women, make them laugh, and ride out the times when our general demeanor and easygoing approach to life enrage them.
He shared with me the nuances that make a great Steven Seagal movie, an appreciation of books, how to talk to stupid people without making them feel stupid, how to keep secrets, and how to process pain.
Dad told me long ago, “If you expect nothing, you’ll never be disappointed.” It took me years to understand what that meant, and whether he realized it or not, it was the essence of the Tao. Life doesn’t owe us anything, and thinking it does only leads to suffering.
Dad caught some bad hands over his life, but how he played them showed his resilience. He considers every situation, rarely letting his emotions get the best of him and always contemplating deeply.
When his father, a man who terrified me to my core, passed away, I was fifteen. I came home from school, and it was dark outside. The house smelled acrid and unfamiliar, and I saw Dad sitting in a chair, his back to me, on the enclosed porch next to the living room.
Smoke wafted lazily over his head, illuminated by a single bulb.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“This is only the second time I’ve smoked a cigar,” he said.
“The first was when we kicked Sadaam Hussein’s ass in Iraq,” he looked at his cigar, half burned, ashes on the concrete floor, “and this one’s for the day my old man died.”
I didn’t know what to say. I offered teenage platitudes and tried to look as sad as possible, thinking it would make him feel better. I left Dad to think, never knowing what he felt that evening.
But that’s Dad; he always plays it close to the chest. His reservoir runs deep, and often, you can find him just thinking. As he says, “It might look like I’m not doing anything, but I’m unraveling the universe.”
So, to you, I say Happy Birthday. You always told me that being a parent was about trying to screw up your kids a little less than your parents did to you. I think, given my rugged good looks, unremarkable criminal record, and deep appreciation of Jean Claude Van Damme, you did a damn fine job.
I love you, Dad.
Until next time.
The man you so eloquently described is my brother. Absolutely wonderful piece of work, Joe. You nailed it. Love you both.
Joe! This is really beautiful. Love this insight into your dad. Moving and funny piece of writing.