When I was 12 and we went to the pizza buffet on the night for just us to hang out, he did not say anything when I chose to sit down in front of the big projection screen TV that was showing MacGyver. Same thing for every football game we went to as a family, during which I would disappear as fast as possible, returning only when thirst or hunger drove me to seek funding. He maintained an even strain on the night they waited in the rain underneath the opposite bleachers as I was supposed to retrieve the key for the booster club concession stand that we were to manage, but instead I was managing a hot dog when they came to find me.
Or maybe he was disappointed when I quit the Boy Scout troop in which he had been an Eagle (I made it to Tenderfoot.) Or the radio hobby that in which my interest faded rapidly. It seemed so weird when he showed up at my Student Congress session (just because I was not in to ham radio does not mean I was not a nerd.) Today, if it were my kid, I would want to be in the front row the whole time. He allowed himself the pleasure once. And he stayed in the back.
I know now that there are a million little ways that a son can cut his father. No individual one is so great, but enough of them could add up. I’ve surely done my share and mostly without even trying. That’s what kids do. What parents do is love their kids anyway. And for my father, I know it is something he had to keep trying even when it did not seem he was getting anywhere. At least not with me. I’m glad he didn’t give up. And I’m glad it’s his birthday. Happy Birthday Pappy.