"I got *my* dad to spend a *weekend* with me, and I thought I was doing pretty good."
It was 1990. I had just told Elissa that my dad and I were kicking off the summer by going on a two-week road trip. What got her was that I said it like it was nothing.
For me, it was. I'd gone off with my dad for two weeks *lots* of times.
My dad was born in 1934. Not that many men born in 1934 would grow up to take an interest in their children as people. This one did.
Both my mom and dad had to work in the evenings pretty often. Of the two, my dad's workplace was more relaxed, so he would pick me up after school, drive me the 45 minutes to his job, and teach classes while I half-listened and did my homework. Then we'd eat a late dinner and go home.
On the way down, we talked. At dinner, we talked. On the way back, we talked. Somewhere in there, I'd usually stretch out across the back seat (the country was a bit less safety-nazi back then) and fall asleep. There's nothing like falling asleep to the hum of a car.
#
My dad didn't have a dad.
I think that might have been the making of him.
First of all, he never got the bad example--he never saw That Guy sitting on That Chair hiding behind That Paper and That Cigar. So he had to invent his own ways of being a dad, and in his complete naivete, he assumed this meant he would have to put in a lot of work and emotional investment. And, you know, the lack of That Guy in his own life made him feel like all that work was worth it.
He told me once, "I made up my mind that any children of mine would know me."
I'm looking forward to seeing you. Dad.
