Hey dad...

I do have a really choice taco entry, but I need to write about this first:

My dad is turning 65 this year. He and I haven't always had the best relationship. It's a little bit of a cliche to write that--and I'm sure there are lots of men my age that once had an "angry young man" attitude toward their dad, or to authority in general. I certainly did. But we're both older now. The lion's share of our lives are behind us. I imagine that neither he nor I ever imagined that there'd be a time when the scales became imbalanced towards the past rather than the future, but that time is here for both of us (note to sexy young female readers: I still have much game, don't hesitate to write).

My earliest memories of my dad go pretty far back to a time when our family was a trifecta of my mother, my father, and I. These are hazy memories, but aren't value neutral. We lived, I imagine, a simple life--a young family on the come-up. Strangely, my dad-memories have to do with food. Odd, I know. But there was a deli near our house and I remember going there with him to snap a pickle or a frank to snack on. I know, in hindsight, that he was working terribly hard to take care of his family--something he's always done, even to the day. But these are tangible memories, not the slide show shots that tip a hand to the prior, rakish years...

My family has an insane collection of slides. I wish people still had these things, but the digital age has leeched the sentimentality and effort from the act of preserving memories. To me, there's something about the smell of a hot projector bulb and the "whack" of a slide carriage moving forward that cracks me up. And somewhere in between the photos of my mom's beehive hair and my grandparent's Thanksgiving is a few rare pictures of my dad as a young man. He was lean, a lifeguard, with a mean crew cut and that certain unstoppable confidence that only a young man in his true prime possesses. That look, that "Let's go world, I'll fuck you up!" look--a challenge and a belief and an inner confidence. To some extent I think those are the truest and most beautiful qualities of youth.

We ended up having a normal family. I have a brother and a sister, a mom and a dad. And as I grew up, my memories about my dad have a lot to do with sports: baseball, soccer, basketball. I even have an ill-fated football memory (trust me, I'm no gridiron guy--don't even know the rules). But it wasn't only like that. My dad taught me to play chess. A sport that I love to this second. We played on a small wooden board that my mom gave to my dad during their first Christmas. I have that board now, and it's hidden away, so don't even ask to see it. But sports were always a big deal in my family. My brother is a natural athlete, and I'm envious of his knack for that sort of thing. I was/am all thumbs in that regard. But we still played all the time. It was an important ritual for my dad to play catch or throw some pitches to us. This sounds so Cleaver-esque, but it's true. We actually played a LOT of catch after he got home from work. No idea where he found the energy, but we threw that damn ball tens of thousands of times. As I grew older I concluded A) that I pretty much suck at sports and B) Sports were a symbol of "The Man" and his twisted ways. I much preferred to tap dance.

Tonight on the phone he asked me if I thought he'd been a good father. It's a really great question, as there are lots and lots of crappy dad's out there. Growing up, I explained, any relationship shortcomings were more the product of my adolescent anti-authoritarianism than anything else. He was always consistent and loving. In that great Greek tragedy of youth, you almost have to rebel against the father figure in order to begin determining who you are before the wheel turns and you finally conclude, years later, that you can never stray too far from home.

As a young man I did as much as I could to distance myself from my dad. It's not that I hated the man or wanted nothing to do with him. It was simply that I wasn't convinced that he had it all figured out. I think that's a pretty predictable stance to take when you're 21 and full of the same swagger that I now see in those old slides. Strange how that works out. Like old Hamlet says, "To hold a mirror up to nature" is to show you who you are.

We went through some bad, distant years. Years that I can't see much good in, other than that they make me now appreciate his consistency and love. I told him this tonight: regardless of what was going on, he was always consistent and I always knew that he loved me, his oldest son. And trust me, I worked as hard as I could to disprove this. But he never gave up. That might be his most defining trait: he is not a quitter. He never gave up, even when I was doing everything I could to do just that. I don't have a son, never will, but I can only try to imagine the guts, mixed with devastating sadness, that he forced himself to endure in order to be there for me when my Greek wheel turned so many years later.

So we found ourselves on the phone tonight--having not spoken for a few days. I got in late last night and he was feeling his age. He asked me if I thought he'd been a good dad. It wasn't an insecure question--not levelled in the interest of self-congratulation or anything so self serving. It was just an honest question. My answer to him, to you dad, is as follows: any shortcomings in our relationship have been my doing--either through youthful rebellion or monstrous choices. But they've been mine. You've never let me down, and you've always been yourself. We joke, as a family, about Clark Griswold and your occasional, strange similarity. But we know it's in jest. You love your family, and your oldest son. We know that you've worked your ass for us all. We are all also old enough to know that nobody is perfect, but you're as close as possible as long as you're just being yourself--and you've always done that. You're a real person, and you've been a real father.

You and I are at points in our lives where we're friends now. Your work with me is mostly done (mostly, I said mostly!). It's not accurate to say that I don't think of you as a father. You're always my dad. But you're my friend now, too. One of the best I have. So the answer to your original question lies therein--in my opinion the true measure of your success is the relationship's ability to evolve. After so many years, I have a dad, a father, a friend, a mentor. You've done an incredible job, and I never want you to question the success of your effort. I've got your back, and I know you've got mine. What more can you ask for these days? All my love.