To Dad

When I was young my father made us the world’s best hot-dog roasting sticks ever. He worked at the local university as the PE department’s equipment manager. As a result he got first dibs on any cast-off equipment before they threw it away. So when they were getting rid of their damaged badminton racquets and some old fencing foils my dad had an idea.

That night he came home with a set of fencing foil blades fastened into the handle and shaft of the badminton racquets. Viola! Comfortable handles with a long reach. This was important for a family of eight, plus their friends, roasting hot dogs in the backyard around a fireplace enclosed on three sides. You had to be able to reach the fire if you didn’t want to go hungry or eat a cold dog.

He built the fireplace, too, from cinder blocks and bricks I’m sure he salvaged from somewhere.

That was the way my dad was, though I never realized how unusual that was at the time. He was always fixing things, improving things, or creating new things that never existed. He fixed the centrally-controlled clock system at the gymnasium; something I realize today probably wasn’t in his job description. He devised a system of checking towels out to students for their workouts that ensured he got every towel back again.

He renovated our house. He fixed sewing machines as a side business. He experimented with different chemicals and methods for cleaning things. He jury-rigged our cars to get us all home. He was an unofficial spokesman for WD-40. We teased him about it, but today I know exactly where my can is at any given time.

In short, my dad was never just an equipment manager, just a janitor. He was a systems analyst, a process analyst, an inventor, a mechanic, an engineer, an architect. Whether he wanted to be all those things or if it grew out of necessity I don’t know, but I know he enjoyed it. And we absorbed it, not knowing that Dad was helping us kids become more self-sufficient.

When I was a teenager he asked me to come help him fix the faucet in the kitchen. I was not thrilled—and was even less so when I found out he intended for me to do the work. I felt that “you need to learn to do this for yourself” was a pretty lame excuse. But I did it.

Over ten years later I became a homeowner myself. Thanks to my dad, I am an empowered homeowner (that’s the modern terminology, mind you. In my father’s day it was just being “competent”). Leaky faucets? Faulty ducting? Broken lamp? No problem. Build a shed from scratch? Sure thing. Replace a sink? I can do that.

I didn’t learn to do all of that from my father, but he taught me the most important thing: your two hands, coupled with a decent brain, can do most anything if you’ll just try it.

It’s been two years since my Dad died. It’s strange. It seems the longer he’s been gone the more I miss him, the more I understand just how much of who I am is because of him. I never thought of myself as an unappreciative person—you know, the “the older I get the smarter my parents get” type—yet that’s exactly what I’m finding as I get older. I thought I knew how good my father was, how smart he was, how creative.

I didn’t know squat. Part of it is just because it’s hard to see what is right there in front of you all the time. You don’t realize your parents are special, because they’ve always been that way. The things your friends' parents do amaze you, because they’re new, but your own parents can’t impress you because they’ve always been impressive.

But part of it is because some things you just can’t really understand until you go through it yourself. I got a late start in getting out on my own and starting a family. Now that I’m finally learning the questions to ask, he’s not here to ask anymore. Would I have had the guts—or the time—to even ask him if he were? I don’t know. My father and I were not all that close. Did that bother him? I’ll never know. Not in this life, anyway.

The Mike and the Mechanics song “In the Living Years” is as true as any scripture (via LyricsFreak:

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door

I know that I’m a prisoner
To all my father held so dear
I know that I’m a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got

You say you just don’t see it
He says its perfect sense
You just can’t get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defence

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
Its the bitterness that lasts

So don’t yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different day
And if you don’t give up, and don’t give in
You may just be o.k.

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

I wasn’t there that morning
When my father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say

I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I’m sure I heard his echo
In my baby’s new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

It’s not like my father and I didn’t get along. We did. But I don’t think we really understood each other. At least I never really understood him.

I’m starting to, and it’s at once both wonderful and painful.

I didn’t set out to write something this tender and emotional. I just thought it would be a fitting “first post” on this blog to pay tribute to the man who taught me the joy of making things. Say it to yourself: “Mmmaking things”. It’s thrilling just to say it. To do it--even more so. To bring into existence something that didn’t exist before elicits an almost primeval, sinewy satisfaction. I…Made…That.

I like making things, whether it’s a piece of software or a bench, a new recipe or a planter box. For the longest time I thought I was on a different career path from my father. It turns out we’ve been in the same line of work all along.

I love you, Dad. I miss you. We’ll have a lot to talk about next time we meet.