My Dad

Tomorrow is Fathers Day, and it has me thinking about my dad. I saw him recently, just last week. We went to Alabama for my brother's wedding, and I saw Dad as much as anyone since he is now retired, and officially my Mom's domestic servant. I worked on a wedding cake for a few days in their kitchen. Several times I went to pick up a tool I had just used, and it was gone. Because he was washing stuff as fast as I could get things dirty. I know my mess was bothering him, but he was a good sport and didn't say anything about it. Dad's really the tidiest one in our family; not something that was passed down to any of my siblings or me as far as I can tell. Sad, really, but he did teach me plenty.

For example, Dad was way out in front of this sustainability trend. He recycles, he reuses, he doesn't use more than he needs, and he is a master at repurposing. When I was in high school, my sister April got married. Her reception was held at a home with a pool in the back yard, and floating candles were just becoming really popular. There were all these pretty white floating water lilly-shaped candles in the pool at the reception. Afterward, the little candles ended up at our house, a houes with no pool but 2 toilets. Yes, the bathrooms were where those candles were repurposed. If you've never witnessed the soft flicker of candle light coming from the toilet, you are missing out on something big in life. As a side note, if you'd like to try this, you should be warned. Not only will your candles provide some potty ambiance and a little post-#2 freshening, they will also warm the seat. So be careful. Enough said?

Also, Dad taught me to be handy with tools. Wait, maybe not. But I'm sure he tried. I remember before I left for college, Dad made me go outside and watch him change a tire. He showed me where the spare lived, how to retrieve it, what to do with it, and I remember hoping I never had to do it. And then one day I had a flat. I quickly replayed that afternoon in my head and called April. She lived an hour away and was on her way to my apartment for some reason anyway, so I just called her and asked her to meet me at my car. I waited until she got there, and she changed my tire. I like to think I could have done it. I'm sure I could have, but I was wearing a dress, and I'm sure she didn't have anything else to do.

So, maybe Dad didn't quite drive home the point when it came to wrenches and screwdrivers, but I dare you to challenge me to an ice-picking contest. You would be sorry if you did, because I really can work an ice pick. And maybe that's not great for changing flats, but it's great for tube ice. Huh? Did you just ask yourself what tube ice is? Oh, please! Don't tell me your parents didn't love you enough to teach you about tube ice. Allow me to enlighten you. See, whatever is done to water in an actual ice machine to turn it into ice makes it taste funny. Chemically. And that makes your drink taste funny, and we just cannot have that. So, we have to come up with alternate ice production methods. And let's face it, nothing good can come of ice trays. No, we tried that for at least half of my childhood, and let me tell you: it was bad. Failure to refill the ice tray was a serious offense. Serious. And those poor little ice trays were no match for our Kool-Aid and Pepsi guzzling crowd. We needed more ice, and tube ice was soon the solution. I don't even remember where the tubes came from (Crystal Light containers it seems like, but who drank the stuff?), but they were perfect for ice. The problem was that the resulting tube of ice was just too big, so the ice had to be made smaller. Hence the ice pick. From then on, misplacing the ice pick was a serisous offense, and stabbing yourself in the hand with it was even worse, but I'm sure that never happened. Tube ice eventually gave way to bigger, badder ice shapes, but the tube will always have a special place in my heart. Right next to the wooden-handled ice pick.

Dad also taught me to drive. First an automatic, then a standard. We won't go into it at length because the emotional wounds are still too fresh. Suffice it to say there were some tears. A few of them were spilled while trying to get the stupid stick-shift over the railroad tracks from first gear. That was a prerequisite to being allowed to drive myself to school since I had to cross those tracks on the way to and from school. Yeah, so Dad was a pretty thorough driving teacher. And if by that you assume that I am really trying to say that he was a driving Nazi because of all his telephone company safety training, then you might not be wrong.

Lest you assume that I only learned practical lessons from my Dad, I can assure you my schooling goes much deeper. As a matter of fact, even on those angst-ridden driver's permit drives, Dad taught me important philosophical lessons. One was about priorities. I remember the day clearly. I thought I was a pretty good driver by then. We were leaving the grocery store parking lot. I was making a left turn and chatting mindlessly with Dad, probably explaining to him why he should give me some money or allow me to do something stupid. There was a truck coming toward us from the right. I judged there to be plenty of time and made the turn. I guess I should have waited, because before I knew it, I was knee deep in a lecture. Here's the gist: I only have one Dad. Dad has three daughters. In the future, should I feel the need to pull out in front of someone with him in the car, I should prioritize based on who is more expendable. See what I mean? Always teaching, that Dad of mine!

All joking aside, my Dad's the best. He didn't kill me when I wrecked his newish car a month after I turned 16 while skipping school in the rain for no good reason. Or when I accidentally threw the pocket knife he'd had for my entire childhood off the pier. Or when I got sent to the principal's office for circulating a really dumb petition against my sixth grade teacher. Or when I flushed a #2 while he was working on the plumbing and specifically said not to flush any poop. And who can forget that he endured a minor (to everyone else, but MAJOR to him) personal tragedy on the day of my brother's wedding while not killing an entire house full of family members? And then allowed us to pick on him a little bit about it later? I'm impressed, Dad, really!

I guess that day in the car he was right. He is totally unexpendable.

Dad, if you're reading this, I love you. And I'm not just saying that because I'm hoping you'll be a good sport.

Happy Father's Day.