A Visit From Dad

We’re quite a bit past Father’s Day for this commentary, perhaps, but I don’t care. I want to talk about my dad.

You see, he was visiting this past week. He lives 4 ½ hours away, so he doesn’t get down much. And we don’t get there much either, for that matter. Which makes his visits extra special. If he lived the next block over and I saw him every day after work, and on Saturday nights for dinner, and I spent fall Sundays with him in my living room cheering and cursing the Vikings with a cold beverage in one hand and a bag of lime Tostitos in the other…well, that would be great too. But then I probably wouldn’t get that smile on my face when he pulled into the driveway last week after a four-month absence.

My dad is ex-Air Force, a highly decorated pilot in Vietnam and then a long-time commercial pilot. He’s tough as overdone steak, growly with rude neighbors and barky dogs, testy with fidgety children, impatient when the smallest things go awry, detests incompetence, pouts when he loses at poker which is almost always, and punctual almost to the point of being alarming.

And he’s also the finest man I know, with the heart of a saint and a streak of kindness as wide as a football field. My dad won’t blow smoke up your skirt with compliments. It’s hard for him, I think, to express his feelings as freely as he’d like. Maybe that’s his military background. Maybe that’s growing up on a farm in rural Minnesota. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. A firm handshake and a “I’m proud of you, son” is good enough for me.

My dad would rather show you than tell you how he feels. And he’ll do…well, he’ll do just about anything for you. And he can DO just about anything. Give him a roll of baling wire, a light bulb and an apple core and he’ll build you a car you can drive across the country. Never, at any point growing up, did I feel my dad couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of any problem that I had. My dad’s on it, I always assured myself. Everything will be fine.

I told him before he left home that when he got here I was going to put him to work. This may have intimidated some fathers. It may have irritated some fathers. Not mine. He couldn’t have been more pleased. Helping others, particularly his family, validates his sense of self-worth. “All right. Super. I’ll bring my tools,” was all he said.

Which was also great, because I don’t have any tools. Or any tangible skills, pretty much. So when he goes home and tells his friends that HE helped ME put together some garage cabinets, and hang up some bike racks, and fix the gutters, and fix the broken bed, and repair a leaky toilet, he’ll be lying. HE did it - almost everything. Oh, I handed him the occasional crescent wrench or utility knife, and pointed him in the direction of the beverage fridge when he got thirsty, but that’s about it. He’s had some spinal problems, and putting together those cabinets almost put him into traction for a week. He didn’t complain. And he didn’t stop. Because I needed him. And he was there for me, just like he always was.

At some point in life, you probably get too old to sponge off your parents. I don’t know when that age is. I’m 41. Am I there? Am I past there? I hope not. Because I like when my dad visits and I can point out all the projects around the house that need his attention. And I like it when we finish whatever we’re doing, and he puts his thick, hairy, working-man’s hand on my shoulder and says, “We did it, son. A job well done.”

No. Here’s to you, dad. A job well done.