My Dad

When I was a little kid, I remember one of the best, safest, happiest sounds in the world was the sound of my Dad's boots thumping up the stairs to the front door after work. No matter what kind of a day he'd had, he was always whistling as he came in; and, once we heard that sound -- followed by the exciting jingle of keys in the door -- there was no stopping us. Like a bunch of little Pavlov puppies, we had no other focus in the world than to run to him as fast as we could, shrieking; and he'd drop everything; and the room would echo with his happy "HEY!" as we tumbled into his arms, his sun-warmed uniform and strong hands smelling of the flightline and Wild Country cologne.

As a kid, that's just how Dad was. You don't wonder at it or question it. He was just the symbol of all that was safe and positive. He would herd us outside to take a look at that incredible sunset. He would break open a fresh pea pod from the garden and exclaim in genuine wonder at the smooth green jewels within it; and his delight in the world around him flowed over into us and fed us as surely as did those hot strawberry waffles he'd make us while we all watched reruns of the original Star Trek on the livingroom floor.

When I got a bit older and would complain about something, nothing made me feel better than when my Dad would suddenly lean over and mutter, in his 'Indio' voice: "But that won matter to you. Or to me."

And I'd mutter back, "Because we will be far away."

And he'd go, "And we will have all the moh-ney."

And then we'd both go, "BONG!"

Of course, as you get older, your parents naturally become a bit more human. And isn't that the time when you're supposed to start getting critical of them, when they start to lose their godlike status, and the two of you are supposed to have some natural butting of heads as both must adjust to their changing roles?

Well, that never really quite happened with my Dad. As I started to get my own little taste of the grown-up world, my awe of him only grew as I realized all that he did -- and sacrificed -- for us in order that we could grow up in such security and happiness. It is especially now that I'm older that I get to know him even more for who he is, and not just who he is in relation to me. Imagine my delight, then, to slowly discover that Human Dad is even cooler and funnier and kinder and amazing-er than was God Dad (and believe me, God Dad was already pretty cool).

Now, I get to see and enjoy both sides of the picture. As I watch him with my two little sisters, I laugh anew at the "beep-boop-bort-n-ding!" robot that chases the girls, shrieking with glee, down the hallway. And then after we tuck the little ones in, Dad and I run to the kitchen like kids ourselves to drag all the chocolate and popcorn out into the family room; and then, accompanied by the sounds of crunching and passing around more Schnapps, he and Sarah and I hash out all the issues of the world, long into the night.

It seems not only inadequate, but strange, to try to say thanks. "Thanks" is what you say to somebody who helps you move your couch. What do you say to someone who has spent the last 26 years of his life making the last 26 years of yours nothing but joy? How do you thank someone who could easily be a concert pianist, a university professor, a NASA scientist, hell, James effing Bond, for choosing to first and foremost be your Dad? Somehow, I still slightly suspect that Dad is just hiding his Batmobile for those few moments he gets to himself; but not for one minute did I ever doubt that he would rather be cruising in it than helping us build our volcanoes for science class. (Which, now that I think about it, further supports my theory in that they were always the coolest volcanoes -- or Conastoga wagons, or Cheyenne village dioramas, or anything -- at the whole school fair. These were the kinds of dioramas that only Batman could have made.)

But because there aren't really any other words that can do the job, I'll just have to go for these. Thank you, Dad.

And happy Father's Day.