Who Dad?!

Back At It!

There was no storm last night. This morning felt surprisingly lovely as if everything were okay, as if we might not bake or get battered today. I'm probably wrong, but grateful for this peaceful moment.

At the breakfast table, Susan is working a crossword puzzle. I'm thinking about another cup of coffee and getting back to writing about my dad.

The Way of Fathers

I had one who mattered most

One I never knew

His days often began early, getting a job started somewhere in the vast Chicago area. He'd then head to breakfast at a regular spot, like Estelle's on Devon, joining guys who had been eating together just about every day of their working lives. Most were other contractors, but also neighborhood men whose similar routines brought them together through frequent exposure.

They'd drink their coffee, eat, read the morning paper between some chatting and teasing, some low-keyed discussion of current events, only becoming more animated when the talk was about their trade or life problems they were facing. Mostly, they seemed to enjoy or at least tolerate each other during this check-in before heading out for what awaited them. As the one kid at the table, I'd get friendly smiles and perhaps some good natured, head rub attention upon departure.

It was back in his Acorn Tile office, with endless coffee, that my dad would tackle the crossword puzzle between phone calls. He said it kept him sharp.

Lunch was different. Lunch was more upscale and was often with those who were making the deals. Guys with ties and cologne on, at places like Myron and Phil's. These guys laughed louder, told jokes rather than anything revealing, teased the waitress more than each other. I was mostly invisible to them and would notice more teeth than smile.

After work was something else. Lou Malnati's on Lincoln Avenue was the place to be. Trade and business might have decided breakfast and lunch, but happy hour threw a wider net and participants were sorted by personality. This is when and where all the characters gathered. My dad, not a tall man, was a large presence there. Enough said.

I wasn't always comfortable with his impact and following in his wake. I waited for him, a lot, watching and reading the reactions of others. In this way, he unintentionally birthed the writer in me he had said he always wanted to be.

Some of the more sensitive and attentive men in my father's world would go out of their way to tell me what a good man he was, as if concerned that I wouldn't see past the bluster and the bravado.

But I did see the gifts he gave, the funerals he attended even when busy, and how he kept his guys working, no matter what. Every time there was a slowdown, something in our home would get re-tiled.

Your absence is felt

Like an oar out of water

Something unanchored

As a young passenger in my father's vehicles, I'd often be impatient with his routing choices. He knew and used all the back ways around the Chicago area. I couldn't understand taking roads with stoplights over expressways. But he was a veteran survivor of countless rush hours and would rather plod along than get stuck in gridlock.

Only now do I understand the other need to avoid speed. It's not just the slowing of reflexes, but the liberation of attention. With the end of the journey closing in, something calls to notice more, rush less — perhaps reflect on the way we've arrived where we are, imagine where else we might still go.

If I could take a slow ride with my father today, I'd show him the elaborate ways I've found to get from here to there, and how all the maps he left me are utilized, and cherished, more and more. It took me a while to realize what he gave me more precious than anything else was the love and freedom that allowed me to follow my own path even as he hoped I might follow his.

I once wrote a tribute for a book on golf never completed. It was meant for him, and for him to share with his friends.

Mettle Play

There are those born to hardship who know no other way.

Whatever the necessary task, they rise each day

load their bodies as they are able

plow through the rocky fields,

the turbulent waters, the myriad demons

of disease, weather, and human adversary.

And there are softer ones who survive

on the strength and achievements of others

allowed to say no to the chores of living,

stay indoors when the winds howl,

the bugs swarm, and the battles

for their safety are fought.

I am one who knew no struggle,

did not learn to focus past the pain

nor strive for accomplishment

when the obstacles were many.

I could think myself lucky and free

except for all that has eluded me.

My father was first a soldier

then a captain of his industry

and made the world I could play in.

Yet, my weakness came from his strength

and he was as powerless as I

to combat it.

Perhaps by accident, or some design,

he brought an unruly child to a field of honor

where now decades of wrestling with rules and integrity

midst blazing heat, pouring rain, freezing winds

have worked the slow shaping of character

that an easy life could not.