Disorganized Notes on my Father
My dad is one of the best people I have ever known.
He can instantly identify the artist and title of nearly any album within the first couple of opening notes. To those of you who are not impressed by this: Keep in mind that I can put on a mildly crappy, never-released Simon & Garfunkel B-Sides record from 1958 (when they still called themselves Tom & Jerry) that he hasn’t listened to since 1959, and he can STILL name it immediately.
He can play anything, cook anything, race anything, and build anything. If he should happen to slice his thumb off while helping you build something, he will calmly instruct you on how to create and apply a tourniquet.
He can take an entire semester’s worth of your crap and Tetris it so that it actually fits into the back of your car.
I once had a boyfriend who saw my dad jogging and nervously told me that he hoped he didn’t screw up with me, because if he did, he certainly wouldn’t be able to hold his own in a fight. I protested that my dad wasn’t a violent man, but the guy didn’t look any less worried.
My dad has a weakness rivaled only by Kryptonite that involves the need to bolt from the dinner table and Google whatever grammar usage technicality/1967 Beatles lyric/post-synaptic neurotransmitter reuptake pattern we happen to be debating. Upon returning, he always has answers, and is usually armed with printed handouts.
I am at the age when I’m starting to have more and more of those poignant moments when I realize that, rather than being a selfish, parasitic kid, I have opportunities to fulfill his life much as he has mine.
Sometimes that scares me, because I don’t know if I can do nearly as well as he has done for me.