Me Dad

I rarely write about my father. When writing I almost always confine myself to those weighty matters of import to our species. War and peace, the parameters of existence, being and non-being, the boundaries of thought as it relates to the known cosmos. Or love. There is something so satisfying in dangling a string before love and watching it as it dances and plays.

Ergo, I rarely write about my father. Until now, that is. He came to see me last week, having flown thousands of miles from the coast to see his lone son in this strange land. And what did his son do to return his kind show of regard? Absolutely nothing. No dinners out. No entertaining. No riding about to greet friends of whom I’d often spoken.

In sum, I was left with a feeling of profound inadequacy. I’ve tried to ameliorate the feeling to some degree by pleading extraordinary circumstances. I’m still recovering from a severe injury which has left me a virtual invalid. I have no car. Were these things not so I most certainly would have been out and about with my father at every practical opportunity.

I frequently tell people I know that my father and I are very similar in terms of our general natures and view of things. My father has an easy, good-natured disposition. He sees the humor in even the simplest and odd things, such as would frustrate or even anger others. Things of seemingly great import he dismisses as of little concern, mere flash and smoke. I would say that he is slow to judge, did I not suspect that he probably doesn’t pass judgment at all, being cognizant of the general frailty of human nature.

We differ significantly in that my father is far less inclined to endure a quiet life, one that I would regard as contemplative or meditative. I find a great deal of quiet satisfaction in reading or watching films. My father must be constantly in motion. Even if this simply involves driving around to see, well, what there is to see.

I belong to what is commonly termed the Baby Boomer Generation. I know, I know! Overwrought, overused, just shut up about it. Nowhere near as chicly outré or inspired as the Beat Generation. Pathetically more self-involved than any of the X, Y, or Z Generations (I call these the AlphaBeat Generations.).

Dad has his own Generation, though I think he pays scant regard to such things. Such a conceit is more appropriate to my own. His has been referred to simply as the Greatest Generation. The one that endured deprivation, fought in real wars, and strove to raise families at a time when work was a job, not self-fulfillment. And they did this largely unheralded and without thanks.

To raise sons like me.

Well, thanks, Dad. I wish I could have done more for you. I know how much you’ve done for me. And I know I’ll be forever grateful to you.