…and Sunday is Father’s Day
For past couple of days, as I’ve turned off of 15th onto I street while heading into the office, I’ve noticed a Cadillac parked in front of the Metro station with DC vanity plates that read “REALMAN.” The personalized tags caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but think that it would be cool to have that moniker…or to better yet be able to live up to the title. I saw the car parked there on both Wednesday and again yesterday, and as I glanced at the plates and smiled, I couldn’t help but think of my dad.
For as long as I can remember growing up, my dad would return home from work each weekday (I don’t recall him EVER calling in sick) and do pretty much the same thing. After a usually strenuous day working as a union electrician in Los Angeles, he would put down his black metal lunch pail, wash up a bit, and then sit down in “his chair” at the kitchen table with a cold can of Budweiser. The breakfast table (more of a bar really), more or less separated the kitchen cooking area from the family room, and sitting there in his dirty Khakis with his feet kicked up onto my middle chair (I was never in it except to eat…way too busy being a real boy), he would relax there and visit with my mom…while glancing approvingly into our backyard and modest pool area.
I don’t really know this for sure, but as I remember it he really didn’t have a whole lot to say. By and large, he listened to my mom talk about her day, and he always seemed to truly enjoy the decompression time to just sit, visit with my mother and sip from that read and white can. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was just the one Bud, but on rare occasion if it had been a particularly grueling or frustrating day, he might have a second. On rarer occasions (no more than once a year or so as I remember), he might ask my mom to fix him a boilermaker. However, in my entire life, I can honestly say I neither saw him drunk, nor even appearing to be under the influence.
He was, at least to my knowledge, the consummate no-nonsense family man. He treated my mother like gold, attended every one of my childhood athletic and recital events, and though I know he was a deep doubter, he accompanied my mother to church (and made me go) every Sunday. The thing that tripped me out about him was that he was so tough, and I remember one incident that still stands out today.
He had just returned home from work and after following his normal routine, he was sitting at the bar talking to my mom. I think I was in high school at the time, and while either coming or going with barely a hello, I noticed a blood soaked rag wrapped around his left hand. When I asked him about it he just kind of shrugged, and then with a disgusted look he went onto describe how he’d cut off the tip of his middle finger while lunging for a falling fluorescent light fixture (they are sharp).
I asked him what had happened at the hospital, and true to form, he hadn’t yet been. As my mother and I conveyed amazement, he calmly explained the accident had occurred late in the day, and that he planned on going to the emergency room “in a bit,” but wanted to stop off and relax a bit before heading over to UCLA. He was clearly annoyed by our concern, going onto explain that the severed finger (it was just the tip…but it was missing) was wrapped safely in ice in his lunch box. Alarmed, I coaxed him to leave for the emergency room and told him I would drive him to the hospital. He would have none of that though, preferring to drive himself. He had also noticed the lawn had not yet been mowed that week, and suggested it would be good for me to use the driving time, to complete my weekly chore.
I remember him returning from the emergency room, he got out of his company service truck and had a pretty sizeable bandage on this left hand. He came over to where I was working and started helping me pick up the grass clippings and talking about the Dodgers. I had to ask him about this finger, and he mentioned they sowed it on and thought it might take. He was disgusted at the cumbersome size of the bandage though…and planned to make something more practical (out of electrical tape) later that evening in the garage. He wanted to make sure he had enough freedom of movement to work efficiently the next day. I won’t go into detail here, but if I ever cut off a piece of my finger signing check reqs or sitting in a Program meeting, plan on finding me quivering in the fetal position. Don’t plan on me coming in the next day either…as a matter of fact, don’t expect to see me at work for about two weeks. Also…plan on having a team to take me to the hospital…I’m not driving myself if I’m bleeding.
Though he had always been there for me, I was too busy working to be there for my dad when he passed away. I don’t beat myself up about it too much though, I had been there 10 days before and had I gone again he would have just told me to get back to work for “our union.”
You know, I don’t even like beer…but if I could, I’d make time this Father’s Day to have a cold can of Bud…with a genuine real man.
Have a wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, try to make some time for the stuff that matters most…especially if you’re a dad. As always...here is a Friday song just for you.
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