Almost made it through the day without crying… almost. But, in a surprising turn of events, there was also laughter when telling my daughter a story involving Dad’s shenanigans. Laughter. Finally. Thanks for that, Dad. I love you too.
To my Dad.
Thank you for always having my back.
Thank you for always making sure I have gas and bridge money.
Thank you for not selling me to the circus.
I want to say Happy Father’s Day to my Dad. And I’m sure my children would like to take this time to thank him for the inside joke that I constantly throw out, even though they weren’t even born when the joke originated, and it’s one they don’t really “get,” but they laugh along with me anyway. Of course, their laughter is likely just a way to placate their eccentric mother since we’re always in the car with me driving at the time of said joke, and they do have their safety and well-being to consider.
I’ll share a bit of nostalgia with you and let you in on the inside joke – there are actually two. And which joke gets repeated on which outing depends entirely on which road construction sign I happen to see at the time. I know, I know, make jokes about construction signs, you say? Who on earth can come up with jokes about road construction signs? Well, my Dad can. And little did he know they would drive off into the future at full speed to infect his grandchildren.
I have no idea if these happened all on the same long family trip, though I think they did. I think my Dad just happened to be on a “roll” during this one lengthy excursion with a Great-Aunt in tow – honestly, it all happened so long ago that I can’t remember exactly. There are a great many parts of my childhood that I remember only in fragments, not getting the whole picture, but rather just fractured bits. I believe on this particular occasion, we were taking my Great Aunt Bunny to West Virginia with us, and both the long drive and the looming visit itself would have made her an anxiety ridden nervous wreck, such things always did. Which would make sense – IF that’s the trip I’m remembering – because my Dad would have been doing what he could, in his own silly way, to ease my Aunt’s nerves. The jokes I’m going to tell you about, however, those stand out in my mind.
The trip to West Virginia from our house back in those days took a solid 8 hours, and more often than not, there was road construction along the way. Going through an area of construction, with all of its delays and issues, during an already 8-hour trip – with two pains in the ass children, can never be an easy thing, but on this particular trip in question, my Dad decided to take his comic show on the road, as it were, and lighten the mood.
Coming upon a section of road construction that required rerouting of the lanes, there was a safety sign duly posted informing all and sundry of a “flag man ahead.” Now most people would slow down, follow the “flag man’s” direction and just move on, right? Not my Dad. He stopped, rolled down his window (this was in a time when you really did roll down a window) and cheerily greeted the guy: “Hi, Mr. Man!” After we drove on, and I suppose due to the looks of confusion from all of his passengers – except my mother, I don’t even want to know what look she was giving him – he says, “Well, I don’t know him well enough to call him Flag!” Rolling eyes and groaning laughter ensued. And the joke has lived on into infamy. Although, my version keeps the window tightly closed, with me just shouting through the glass, but in a good way, not like when there is an errant jaywalker or a driver who has apparently never heard of a turn signal.
The next sign that encouraged my Dad to act was a bit more hearty and enthusiastic, or rather, his reaction was at any rate. For seemingly no reason whatsoever, and certainly with no warning, my Dad threw out his hand and grabbed my mother by the top of her head. I wish, for the life of me, that I could remember the look on my mother’s face at that instant, but what I conjure (based on personal experience with the woman), it would’ve been a hoot, and not exactly a look of adoration towards my father either. In his defense, he pointed to the “Stop Ahead,” sign we were passing…I mean, he was only following directions, right?
My kids are 25 and 18, and I kid you not, they know exactly what is going to happen when we pass construction or road work that has one of these signs posted. Oh, they may forget in the moment as they text or watch videos on the phone, but whoever is in the front passenger seat is sure to have their head accosted, or to be startled into thinking we’ve seen someone we know, each and every time…and when they search the surrounding area for the sign and find it, they smile a pacifying smile and then go back to their business.
It makes no difference to me if my kids don’t share in my joke. I think it’s hilarious and sometimes, dammit, I just do things because they amuse ME, not necessarily those around me. And more than being amusing, it reminds me of family, of times gone by, and while I can’t grasp the full memory of that road trip from so many years ago – only bits and pieces remain, what does stick in my head is the fact that my Dad was on a comedic roll for the entire drive. Who knew his Dad jokes would get passed down through the generations? I guarantee you that while they may not repeat the jokes themselves, till their dying day, my kids will never be able to pass road construction without at least going over those wisecracks in their head. And maybe, just maybe, when they have kids, this bit of Dad-silliness will live on.
So, thank you Dad…it’s not enough that you’ve had my back since I was born or that you constantly watch out for me. Your casually tossed out pieces of comedic genius have stayed with me over the years and have been the source of great joy, in so many ways. Here’s to family road trips from back in the day. Here’s to lasting memories. Happy Father’s Day! I love you.
A shout out to my Dad on Father’s Day. He may have been on continual “grumpy” mode when my brother and I were growing up (he had good cause and really, a part of that may have been a sadistic rumor started by mother – “just wait till your father gets home!”) and it may have taken him 30 years to realize he likes shorts and sandals/tennis shoes (see, they ARE pretty cool right Dad!? it wasn’t a conspiracy after all.), and he may have had a “that one’s a jerk” meter that went into overdrive every time I brought a guy home, but he has always been there for me when it counts and I have no doubt he always will be. Oh sure, he’s given us some health scares over the years that we could’ve done without (keep that in mind Dad!) but overall, he’s a pretty damn good guy.
Not everyone is meant to be a Dad, trust me, I know. But would you like to hear how I know my Dad was truly meant to be a Dad, and a good one at that? Of course you do. I’ll pretend I heard a resounding YES! at any rate.
When I couldn’t have been more than 8…my sense of time may very well be off, but I couldn’t have been much older than that. Anyway, one day while my Dad was busily fixing our pool filter (yep, we had an above ground pool that ROCKED! till I saw Jaws, that is), I was riding my bike around the yard and decided for whatever reason to try and squeeze through the little narrow path that ran along one side of the pool. Now this was a trick on a good day because there was the pool on one side and my mother’s humongous (I’m serious, it was like a mutation it was so huge) lilac bush on the other. But with my Dad steadily performing his mechanic work, the path was cut off that much more. Now I have to go back a bit to say that while my Dad always, and I mean always, wore jeans and boots, he often went without his shirt while working outside. Unless there was company. Or the chance of his getting wet (don’t even THINK about splashing my Dad with the hose or from inside the pool which he never entered…trust me on this one). And on this particular day, he was shirtless.
So here I go by on my nifty bike with the huge handlebars and truly solid, over-sized pedals (we’re talking old school here) and I would’ve made it…I swear I would have…but that damn bush got in the way at the last minute and as the branches swatted at me, it tipped me over just ever so slightly so that my left pedal caught my father smack in the middle of his lower back. Hard. His bare, naked back. No shirt for a cushion. No cloth to catch the sharp edge of the heavy metal (and not the good kind) pedal and buffer the blow. Nothing.
Now what I remember VERY clearly from this event is immediately seeing the open dent I made in my Dad’s back and realizing I better get the heck away from there before he’s able to get up. But I didn’t quite make it – he was able to raise himself up before I could flee the yard or get into the house. And to my surprise, while it obviously hurt like hell, not a word came out of his mouth and rather than come after his wayward attacker, he staggered around with his hand clapped to his back and probably muttering under his breath – as you do when a bratty kid who didn’t feel like going the other way round rams full bore into your back with a bike pedal.
What he didn’t do was yell, have a meltdown or even punish me. Oh he was angry, no doubt about that. I mean, he’s human after all. But at a time when he could have easily taken the anger and physical pain he was suffering out on the small child who had just engaged in a very stupid, stupid maneuver and injured him – and indeed, many people would have taken that route – he instead simply “walked it off.”
It’s amazing what the mind dredges up when you start thinking of your childhood and your parents. Well. This is what mine conjured up this evening as I was thinking of what to write for this entry. All I can say is, to endure the pain, to endure the worry, the absolute mind-boggling stress that your kids can throw at you on a daily basis with not just the ability but also the mindset to just “walk it off” rather than cause your offspring emotional pain…well, that’s being a stand up parent. A devoted Dad. And I’m proud to say he’s mine.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.
I want to say Happy Father’s Day to my Dad. I love my Dad and he loves me. We don’t always say it. In fact we hardly say it at all. But it’s there nonetheless. It’s one of the few things in life I’m sure of without need of validation. He has always given me a safe place to land in times of need, not to mention money for gas and the bridge, for which I’m grateful. Thanks Dad.