« IT'S BA-A-A-A-A-A-ACK! | Main | PROGRESS... AND THEN A BIG SETBACK »
June 20, 2004
DEAR DAD: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I don't know why it always seems easier to tell you how much I appreciate you when I'm writing it. It's fitting, though - I'm a writer because of you. Don't get me wrong, Mom's a better writer than either one of us, and I think she taught me how to write. But from you I learned how to find what to write about. You have the perceptive quality of a writer, though you may not know it. You call it "people-watching," but what you're really doing is observing how the world works. You may think you're just being friendly when you strike up conversations with total strangers, but what you're really doing is seeing what makes people tick. I describe that as someone having a "writer's eye."
And that's the one part of writing that no one can ever teach - you either have it or you don't. They can teach you grammar and conjugation; they can teach you the basic structures and forms and the how-tos of different kinds of writing. But unless you have that innate way of seeing the world, and picking out the little details that might go unnoticed by others -- and making them the center of your observation... you're not really a writer. Writing without it is like a chef skipping the spices in a dish. Sure, you can follow the recipe, but without the spices it just doesn't stand out. That eye is what makes a writer a writer; it's what helps him write even when he has no idea what he's going to write about.
I got my eye from you, Dad, and I just wanted to say thank you.
We've settled into a good relationship now, Dad, as we've both gotten older and maybe mellowed out a little. I know you remember that it wasn't always this way; for the longest time when I was younger, we butted heads a lot. We weren't awful, but for a few years there we were mountain rams, charging full on at each other, heads down, shoulders braced for impact, and neither one stopping. I used to think we were that way because we just didn't understand one another, that I would never understand your world and you'd never understand mine. I'm old enough now to realize that that wasn't the case at all. It was because I'm so much like you that neither one of us had a clue what to do with the other.
So often now, I hear you whenever I am talking. Some of the things I say, I could have just taken a tape recording of you from 20 years ago and hit "play" now. (You should hear me complain to my friends about people at work who try my patience - even Mom would swear it was you talking about your old supervisor!) And my un-serious demanor - I'm always looking to slip in the one-liner or make the smart-aleck remark that gets everyone to crack up - you might swear you were looking into a mirror. (Well... a youth-inducing mirror. I'm younger and much better looking. And my jokes aren't as corny as yours, either.) My sense of humor has served me well; it's made me friends, it's helped keep me sane in trying times, and I'm finally now learning to use it to control tense situations and turn them to my benefit.
I got my appreciation of humor from you, Dad, and I just wanted to say thank you.
Nothing, not even writing, gives me more enjoyment than baseball. I still miss playing today as much as the day I stopped. I love everything about the game, can recite statistics from every season in my lifetime, know the winner of just about every World Series, and will watch even an Expos-Rockies game over just about anything else on television. I'm more passionate about baseball than anything else in my life. I'm pretty sure I got that from you. I mean, even my very first conscious television sports memory is watching the Fisk home run to end Game 6 of the '75 Series. You coached my first Little League team, taught me to hit, and taught me to think the game, not just to play it. You cheered for the Dodgers every year, whether they were good or bad... patience I would eventually need as a Red Sox fan. Thanks for giving me all that, Dad. (By the way, my Sox beat your Dodgers 2 out of 3 last weekend. You owe me lunch.)
There are also things I got from you that I'm not as happy about. Your ever-more-thin-on-top hairline, for starters. I also inherited your stubborn nature, the one that makes The Murray Answer the only right answer, and The Murray Way the only way to do something. (Unless, of course, the Murray Answer and the Murray Way aren't the Christopher Answer and the Christopher Way. Then, my answer and my way are right.) I get as obsessive about the things I like as you do about the things you like - which isn't always a good thing. But even the things I didn't necessarily want still make me who I am, and so I guess I should thank you for these too.
You're in better shape at 66 than I am at 36 - but that's in part due to health scares that inspired you to take better care of yourself. While I've inherited the genetics, I hope I've also inherited your determination that none of these things will get in the way, that they're merely obstacles to be overcome and then left behind. Thanks for showing me that, too.
When you were my age, you had a 6 year old and a 4 year old. I think I've been delaying because karma knows that it'll take me a few years longer to be ready to do as well at fatherhood as you did. But if and when that time comes for me, I'll have a great example to follow. Thanks for that too, Dad.
Neither my brother nor I would be where we are in this world without your guidance and without the sacrfices you made. I just wanted to be sure you knew that we know it... and that we're grateful.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
