Recently I got a text from a friend at work whose father had just passed away. I knew his dad had been sick, but I was still stunned by the little message on my phone telling me that his dad had passed away so abruptly.
And as I sat in my little cubicle trying to process what had just happened, my thoughts ranged from how Paul must have felt when he realized he wouldn't be able to make it to the hospital in time to say good-bye, and filled with the kind of panic that sets in when something awful happens to a friend, and then, of course, I thought of
my dad.
At first I couldn’t think of a whole lot of moments that I remembered clearly sharing with my dad. Memories of my mom came flooding right in; she was always hugging or yelling or nagging or asking. I guess that’s what being a mom is about, though- there is a lot of doing that needs to be done. But my dad’s always been this sort of nebulous figure and force in my life. I don't know; maybe that’s part of what being a dad is, too... to just wait quietly in the background until the momandkidchaos of unfinished homework, broken curfews and quick tempers reaches its final boiling point. And then they somehow just make it dadishly, magically right.
I guess it’s probably not like that for everyone. But that’s how it was for us, and I guess, it still kind of is.
Growing up, my dad was the great mediator. Regardless of who was arguing, someone would inevitably be sent to his or her room and, after some time, he would come upstairs and discuss the argument until a suitable resolution was reached by all affected parties.
He was always challenging us; he never let us off the hook for a weak argument. He still doesn’t. (But, Dad!)
He was also always the rational one. There's honestly only one time I remember my dad ever being emotional. I was skipping around the dinner table, in the way that only fifth graders can, trying to avoid clearing the dishes when he dropped the news that we were moving to Wisconsin because of a job transfer. I immediately started crying and ran to my room, refusing to speak to him. He came to console me in my room and when he handed me a tissue, I did a double take when he grabbed one for himself. I’d never seen him cry before then. And I’ve never seen him cry since.
My dad was always processing and thinking… terrible on the phone (a trait I've definitely inherited), not often a driver of conversation. Quiet (until he’s had a few glasses of wine). I sometimes wonder if he feels frustrated at the critique of not sharing or responding or giving enough to his partner. And I think I’m only just now starting to understand this particular personality quirk.
But the thing I remember most about my dad, is the way he eats.
I remember him teaching me the first thing I ever learned how to cook: showing me how to perfectly drench the leftover sandwich bread in egg and vanilla to make his delicious French toast on a Saturday morning.
I remember going to our favorite ice-cream parlor every Friday night when my brother and I were growing up; how he’d always get the same heaping scoop of raspberry chocolate-chip in a sugar cone.
I remember the meatball sandwiches we used to eat together at the local Italian deli that opened up in our neighborhood when I was just starting high school. We’d stop in on the weekends… a full length sub on fresh Italian roll with meatballs and melting provolone. (And of course a tray of homemade Tiramisu for dessert that night…)
I remember the way his eyebrows raise when the dessert menu comes out at a restaurant. He always gets the most ridiculously decadent chocolate dessert on the menu.
I remember how, on the weekends, he’ll carefully put a Lay’s potato chip in his mouth, often following it with an equally delicate sip of Dr. Pepper. (Always clad in jeans and a Land’s End sweatshirt, always after mopping the kitchen floor. And always yelling at me for stepping on it before it was dry.)
There were other things of course… soccer drills in the backyard, Saturday morning chores, endless tennis serving lessons, meticulous college-entrance essay editing, and of course, tension-filled driving lessons in the parking lot behind our house. (DAD! I PUT THE CLUTCH IN! GOD!)
My dad might be particular about a lot of things, and a little difficult to get to open up sometimes. But the thing I will remember far after my dad is gone, is the way we both love an ice-cold Dr. Pepper on a Saturday afternoon, the way we might accidently finish half a package of Oreos before dinner, and how no matter how stuffed we are, there’s always room for dessert.
There are a lot of things I’ve learned from my dad over the years...like being able to construct well-formed, rational arguments in the face of an agsty teen (or late twenty-something), and having patience when that same teen is stalling your Honda Accord for the ten-zillionth time, are important skills. But perhaps just as important, is being passionate...and being able to share that passion with the people you love most. Thanks for sharing your passions with us, Dad... and your chocolate-raspberry lava cake.
Happy Father's Day.
At first I couldn’t think of a whole lot of moments that I remembered clearly sharing with my dad. Memories of my mom came flooding right in; she was always hugging or yelling or nagging or asking. I guess that’s what being a mom is about, though- there is a lot of doing that needs to be done. But my dad’s always been this sort of nebulous figure and force in my life. I don't know; maybe that’s part of what being a dad is, too... to just wait quietly in the background until the momandkidchaos of unfinished homework, broken curfews and quick tempers reaches its final boiling point. And then they somehow just make it dadishly, magically right. 
