Father's Day

"My dad taught me everything I know.  Unfortunately he didn't teach me everything he knows."  ~ Al Unser.

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”  ~ Unknown but often attributed to Mark Twain

He pulled on the oars on a chilly (well, frigid) early morning and the little rowboat, not so much glided as  moved in fits and starts to a little spot tucked into some reeds at the lake’s edge.  I would stare sleepily, trancelike at the water that swirled around the paddles.  Once at our spot he would tie the boat off on a half-submerged tree and then he’d make sure I’d baited my hood correctly and then would guide me through the cast.  The reel zinged and then the little split shot plopped into the water and then we waited.  That was Lake Merced, in the southwest corner of San Francisco.  The lake is just inland from the ocean and is often blanketed by fog that’s pushed in by a chill ocean breeze.  In the middle of that lake on a little rowboat it seemed like you were in the coldest damn place on Earth. 

Classic Dad; book, pipe, easy chair and a little Cognac

He’d been up since about 3:00 in the morning making himself some coffee to jolt out the sleep and then he’d make a Thermos full of hot chocolate and some bacon and egg sandwiches to take along with us.  When all was set he’d roust me out of bed and we’d make the drive north on foggy highway 35 to get to the Lake Merced boathouse when it opened. 

Once settled in we would hunker low and try to make ourselves small targets for the breeze.  The morning usually passed quietly and the only sounds would be the water lapping against the boat, the rustling of the reeds and the chatter of other fishermen that carried across the water.  We didn’t talk much and any talk was in whispers and usually instructional on his part; “Check your bait.” “I think you’ve got a nibble there.”  It was his rule that you keep quiet while fishing; “Don’t scare the fish.”  In retrospect I don’t know if it’s wives’ tale bullshit or if talking on a boat that’s yards away from the bait matters one wit to a fish.  That was dad.  He was a superstitious fisherman but in a pastime that’s almost defined by luck superstitions are something of required equipment.

Every father and son share certain things.  These days I guess it’s usually sports. Dad wasn’t a big sports guy.  That didn’t mean that he’d have no truck with his son’s interest in sports.  He got a set of baseball gloves and we’d play catch. When I fancied that I wanted to be a pitcher (a fantasy that was never realized) he’d get in a catcher’s squat and catch the pitches that I flung as hard as I could.  He caught them in a mitt that had about as much padding as a sheepskin driving glove and even though my pitches were more tepid and less “heat,” they still had to sting.  But he patiently indulged my Koufaxian reverie. 

When I ran track and cross-country in high school dad never came to any meets.  And that didn’t particularly bother me.  It was a different time then and you didn’t just take off of work to go see a kid’s athletic event.  Only a smattering of parents ever came to the track meets.  And as for cross-country?  Well who in the hell goes to those?  Back then cross-country was for the guys who were deemed “clods,” you know the ones who couldn’t catch or throw; it was for the weird and the socially inept.  But there was one time; one time.  I was a couple years out of college and I was actually training hard and running pretty well.  It was the county fair 5K in our hometown of San Mateo and I was in contact with the leaders but starting to sputter when I heard “Go man, go!”  It was a familiar but unexpected voice.  There was the old man. Dad drove down to cheer me on.  It would be a really great story to say that hearing and seeing him injected me with the energy to overhaul the leaders and finish victorious but I was out of gas, out of gears and out of will.  But it was still pretty darn great.

Dad and I shared fishing, camping and books.  Early on he taught me the value of books.  While other dads were reading their kids fairy tales he was reading to me, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Treasure Island and The Red Badge of Courage.  To this day I still reread London’s The Call of the Wild and it brings back a memory of lying in a bed while dad sat on the edge of the green plaid bedspread and read to me the Klondike adventures of the big dog Buck.  

His formal education as a young man was limited but that didn’t mean it was a limitation.  He taught himself calculus which helped him to get a job as a technical writer.  He understood the value of education and continually took college extension courses.  And that value of education trickled down to his son and eventually to his grandchildren; who he unfortunately never really knew. 

Dad was a very deeply principled man.  If you couldn’t have principles, then what the hell did you have? That one trickled down as well, much to the sometime chagrin of my kids who think I carry a portable soapbox.  I don’t suppose he would be happy with where this country is these days.  Standing on principle is sort of nostalgic these days.  

   

Right after the war (That would be WWII.  My generation and dad’s always understand “the war” to be WWII), Dad did a short stint writing an editorial for a small town paper in Utah.  In a time and place when racism was still just a matter of personal choice and when PC meant you didn’t shit on high ranking, decorated military officers, dad had the testicular fortitude to write a column that dripped with irony and sarcasm and dumped a steaming load on a general for being racist.

He lived through the depression and knew want and so he didn’t tolerate waste.  He was one of the Greatest Generation but he would probably ask, “What the hell was so great about it?”  For him there was nothing great about America’s young men shipping off to combat; an experience that made him a deep seated pacifist.  He would say that the best thing for him that came out of the war was the government sponsored trip to Europe that introduced him to his two loves; his wife and Italy. 

He had a boundless passion for Italy and anything Italian.  Well maybe not so much the food.  He was a meat and potatoes guy.  He loved to play chess and he taught it to me early and we would play often.  As cultured as he could seem with his love of literature, classical music and history he was a slapstick guy.  We spent hours watching The Three Stooges, Laurel and Hardy and The Keystone Cops.  We howled with laughter, tears rolling down cheeks while mom looked on in a sort of disgusted confusion. 

He left many years ago; his mind having become a blank slate, his memories of Italy and his family as foggy as the Lake Merced mornings we spent together that were also erased from recollection.  Like many a son or daughter I regret not having thanked him for putting up that basketball hoop over the garage, or taking me camping or out to fly a kite or the thousands of other things that dads are expected to do and not often thanked for.  It’s a sad and shortsighted mistake that doesn’t come with a do over.

Father’s Day doesn’t really carry the horsepower that Mother’s Day does.  But that’s alright; we dads get that. I suppose it’s because mom is the nurturer and dad is the enforcer.  You know that good cop/bad cop thing.  Mom kisses the boo-boo better and gives you a homemade cookie to make the hurt go away and dad might tell you to shake if off.  Maybe part of it is because these days there just aren’t enough dads.  Oh there are plenty of fathers; there’s one for every kid.  There just isn’t a dad for every kid; and there’s a difference.  I had a dad and I’m forever grateful and better for it.