Stories of me and my father. Inspired by and written in the style of Resident Contrarian's Father's Day.
I'm four years old and standing in my parents' room near the window. Dad is explaining to me and my brother what the two most important things in the world are: honesty and kindness. I carry this philosophy with me for years until my teenage years and external influences change it. I still carry the phrase in my mind, and my actions have been molded by it. I'm honest when and where it matters and I consider myself incredibly kind.
I'm seven years old and I learn that Dad will be leaving my brother and I in the care of our grandmother—his mother—for a couple of days to watch his half-brother play in the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. My life flashes before my eyes as I think how horrible those days without him would be. I had some form of anxiety at the time that was especially triggered by new authority figures having control (bus drivers, substitute teachers, grandmothers in the place of parents). I can't handle that, no way, not in a million years. I cry, I beg, I plead with him not to go, not to leave me and my brother. He relents, pacifying my mistaken anxiety and missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so I can be comfortable.
I'm still seven and have just arrived at the Cub Scout chess tournament. Dad and I have been playing and practicing daily for months (mainly me trying to sneak an obvious four-move checkmate on him). It's a welcome routine after he gets home from work and I've had enough of watching TV or playing with something. I lose my queen in the first game, yet persist and beat him. (I later find out he made an illegal move with his knight to take my queen.) I breeze through the next few games to become the coveted Cub Scout Chess Champion. Dad is beaming at the fruitful, satisfying outcome of our hard work.
I'm nine years old and Buddy, my elderly diamondback terrapin turtle, is seemingly on the verge of death. My daily checks of his health end one fateful summer morning when I find his eyes closed and body limp. I'm devastated. I bawl. I call Dad and tell him of the tragedy—I need him home, now. He immediately replies "I'm on my way", despite being in a rather important work meeting. We give Buddy a proper burial in the backyard and say a few words about him being a great turtle to look after.
I'm 12 years old and at my first ever mountain bike race. I am absolutely psyched to shred the "banana bike" (the nickname of our yellow Cannondale F700) and whoop some ass while doing so. But the competition looks fierce, and I hate the idea of not doing as well as I expected, which was first. It begins to rain and the only lodging option we have is the tent and sleeping bags we brought. My anxiety builds and I convince Dad to leave. He gently protests, but eventually softens after realizing how much I want to go home. I never race after that.
I'm 12 years old and sitting in middle school social studies daydreaming about girls and mountain bike builds in the forest behind my home. An office assistant comes in and hands the teacher a pink slip, indicating someone was lucky enough to miss out on the topic at hand to go elsewhere. Much to my surprise, that someone was me. I had a lingering feeling about what it was...but kept it stifled so as not to have all the excitement come crashing down. The suppression was unnecessary. Dad was waiting in the lobby, and outside was the family truck with our mountain bikes in the bed. "Ready to ride Flat Rock?" he asked with a grin on his face.
I'm 14 years old and have been training for my middle school's mile run record for the past five months, getting up at 5:00am to train and sacrificing my would-be social life and fun in pursuit of the goal. And it's finally paid off: the record was smashed by over two seconds. Dad writes in to the city's major newspaper about my training—they reject it, I find out and am angry at the spotlight being turned on me, until I take a second to realize that it takes an immense amount of pride to send something like that to the newspaper.
I'm 16 years old and am planning to have friends over that night to sit around a fire in the backyard, but we don't have firewood. I have a few other errands to run beforehand, so I call Dad and gently ask him if he can make it happen. I come home to full bundle of firewood.
I'm 19 years old and at home in the summer when Dad suspiciously calls and asks if I'll be home in just a bit. I answer "yes..." and he quickly mumbles an affirmative and hangs up. Minutes later the doorbell rings, causing me to slyly creep up the stairs to see who it is. Is that Mr. A?! Dad's coworkers, who have a pretty cool job, are swarming the front of the house, meandering around and chatting with each other. I get dressed and head outside to see the ruckus. "We were in the neighborhood and I figured a picture would be pretty cool." Fuck yeah, it would be. I say my goodbyes and immediately head inside to order wallet-sized prints.
I'm 21 years old and call Dad almost every day on my way home from work. He answers with enthusiasm and excitedly talks about his day and I talk about mine.
I'm 22 years old and Dad randomly texts me (using Siri, so ignore the punctuation and grammar issues):
Ethan, no need to call back, I went riding in [our home trails] today and recalled a conversation we had when you were in eighth grade and called me at work. You asked if I wanted to ride that afternoon, and I said oh you're riding today, and you replied yeah dad every day. I felt a little badly that I could not ride you but I made an effort to in the future ride more that's kind of a long disjunctive story love you talk soon
I don't realize the significance of this simple, yet thoughtful, text: Dad still thought about some casual conversation from eight years ago that I had zero recollection of.
I'm one year old, I'm two years old, ..., I'm 22 years old and Dad still supports me in every way possible without expectation of any type of reimbursement: financially, emotionally, morally, instrumentally, informationally. He funded my college education, putting me in an incredibly fortunate place to start my career. He listened to my problems, big or small, and gave me his opinion when he felt like I was asking for it, but no more. He was someone to spend time with at any moment of the day in any location—the phone was never out of reach and no task was too important to not put down to talk for a few minutes. He provided thoughts on life in general, not telling me this is the way it was, but rather suggesting ideas and letting me mull them over. And he did all of this, plus a hell of a lot more, unconditionally. Every selfless action, every piece of advice, every minute spent doing something for or in regards to me was because he wanted to, not because he had to.
I'm still 22 and we've just finished moving almost everything I own into my new apartment. I feel the familiar anxiety of being left alone to fend for myself lurking in the background, but it's different than what I've felt before school semesters: this time I'm further away, in a new city, no friends, no acquaintances, nothing. We're finished moving and it's time for them to get on the road. I give them hugs and start to cry a bit, but know that I'll see them at Thanksgiving in two short months. It's the last time I see Dad in person.
I'm 24 years old and continue to reminisce on the "good ol' days", which were made almost entirely possible by Dad. He worked hard to let us afford comfortable vacations; he bought us toys and bikes and paid for car insurance and gas and groceries; he took us out on fun day trips to mountain biking trails and got us double cheeseburgers afterwards; he played video games with us not because he enjoyed the games, but because he enjoyed spending time with us. The list goes on and on and on.
Dad was a wonderful man, friend, and father. He molded who I am to a large degree and I continue to carry his philosophies with me through my life. It's been two years and I miss him dearly.