When Shelby and I were just little sprouts, we'd drive our mom crazy right up until Dad got home, then we'd switch tactics and start to work on him. Dad would come home exhausted from work, but we were unaware of such things. We wanted him to play a submarine game on the Nintendo that we enjoyed watching, but we were terrified of playing by ourselves. It was just too complicated for 5 and 6 year old boys. We had used all of our combined brain power to get past a giant hole in Super Mario Bros.
The submarine game was called Silent Service, and it was intense. You were the captain of a submarine, out hunting evil ships and sinking them from the safety of the deep. But you had to monitor all sorts of gauges, run your little man down below decks to make sure nothing was leaking, and dive below the waves to keep from getting detected by enemy radar.
Dad was a pro. He was undetectable. He could slip underneath enemy radar, pop up from behind their defenses, and blast their evil German ships to smithereens before they knew what was up. If Dad had been a submarine captain in WWII, the war would have lasted about 35 minutes, tops.
Shelby and I loved watching Dad play. We tried playing while he was gone, but it was too confusing and we got sunk.
Dad didn't whine about spending time with us after a long day. He put his effort into letting us know we were valuable to him. He played us literally hundreds of board games and card games. Inventors, Monopoly, Billionaire, Rack-O, Horse Collar, Masterpiece, Scum, Museum Caper, Clue, Sorry, Trust Me, Risk, Chess, Pegity, Settlers of Catan, Bohnanza, Apples to Apples, Moods, Othello...
Each Sunday, Dad would make popcorn. Over the years, he honed his corn-poppery into a considerable skill. I've had a lot of popcorn, but none match my Dad's. After mastering popcorn, he set his sights on omelets. He now holds the title of #1 omelet maker, if you ask me. (Dad, please work on gluten-free twinkies next!)
Dad took us on bike trips, camping trips, field trips, work trips, road trips, and the occasional trip to the hospital. I spent many Summer weekdays riding shotgun with Dad on service calls, fixing air conditioners. Well, I'd fetch tools, he'd fix air conditioners. He'd introduce me to the customers as his oldest son, and I'd beam with pride. (We still occasionally run into customers that say "My sakes alive, look how much your son has grown!")
We'd complete our service calls and then run over to the Iowa City Public Library, where we'd borrow stacks of Boxcar Children books, Nancy Drew novels, Garfield comics, and old black-and-white videos of Charlie Chaplain, Laurel and Hardy, and Buster Keaton. Incidentally, I think these ancient silent films are why Grabers talk so much during movies. We had to do the talking since the movie wouldn't do it for us. :)
Dad provided us kids with bicycles, skateboards, roller blades, four-wheelers, mopeds, dirt bikes, and go-karts, and helped us repair them when we broke them. Or ran them into trees. When I started getting considerable air launching the four-wheeler over some ditch culverts, he didn't wring his hands and fret. He went out and bought me a helmet and told me to go for it.
On Sundays, Dad would toast bread, cut it diagonally, and then butter it just right. He'd offer me toast, too. I thought he meant that he'd grab my gluten-free bread, put it in my separate toaster, and toast it for me. So I would say "Sure!" And he'd toss me a piece of regular bread.
"No, Dad. I can't eat that."
"Oh, that's right! Sorry, kiddo."
He offered me regular, wheaty toast for years. But I loved it, because he treated me as a normal kid, and not like some diseased anomaly.
Dad taught me to drive from a young age, letting me sit on his lap and steer when I was 11. By the time I got to Drivers Ed at 15, I had already driven (or steered) on interstate, gravel roads, highway, and city streets. He also taught me how to drive stick-shift, patiently explaining how to let out the clutch on the old Dodge pickup so we wouldn't get stuck in a series of lurching movements he called "bunny-hops". I gave us both a headache my first time out, but within a week I was much smoother.
Dad took us on family vacations to Florida, Canada, Michigan, St. Louis, Washington, D.C., Maryland, Tennessee, Oregon, and many other states. Most of our vacations involved seeing relatives, but some were just for sight-seeing. Those trips with my family are some of my favorite memories, if you don't count that one trip to Florida when we took home some sea shells that still had living creatures in them that subsequently died and stunk up the van. On these trips, Dad would say that he's known many men that saved their money until all the kids moved out, then they'd build a giant addition onto their house. Dad thought that was silly. "Spend on family trips while the family is still at home!" He would say.
On long trips, he would tell Shelby and I stories; imaginary tales with danger, mystery and suspense. Trees with secret hidden openings, treasure hunts, exploring caves. He told them with such detail, I thought he was just reciting a book from memory. We were always on the edge of our seats, shouting "Look out!" "Oh no!" "What happened next??!" Many years later, I realized he was just using his imagination and making the story up on the fly. We always hated when he'd say, "TO BE CONTINUED!" and we'd beg him for more. Now, I understand that was his sly way of saying "I can't really think of any more story right now." I'm going to use that tactic someday on my own children.
Over the years, I have offered suggestions to adapt or change or improve this or that, and he's jumped right into it. Dad listens to his children and values their opinions.
I never envisioned that my father, my boss, and my landlord would be the same person, but I really enjoy the setup. Boss Dad is unfairly kind, allowing my work schedule to be flexible for mission trips, summer camps, and trips. Landlord Dad has made time to help me out at the trailers, mowing yards and landscaping and picking me up when I have car trouble. He ran to my place while I was in Ohio and saved my LP tank, my vehicles, and my pet rats from the Flood of 2013, even though he would have preferred to shoot the rats.
I've learned a whole lot of quality life lessons from my Dad. Because of him, I only see one race: the human race. The customer is always right, even when they're wrong. After loving God, family is the most important. Sometimes a little cussing is acceptable, when you're working with heavy machinery that won't cooperate. Choose your love, then love your choice. There are some videos out there that aren't even acceptable for pigs to watch. If it's bleeding, it needs hydrogen peroxide. If you don't have time to do it right the first time, when are you gonna find time to do it over?
Thank you, Dad. Thank you for all that you've invested in us kids. I can't even do justice to all my favorite memories of you. The days we spent working on your cars. Teaching us patience by letting us help you glue model kits together. That one time you burned popcorn because we were so busy watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and we had to evacuate the house because of the horrendous stench but it was awesome anyway because we got to camp out on the trampoline...
If God gives me children, I hope to treat them like my Dad treated (and continues to treat) us kids. (Logan, I'd like to be a husband before a father, you smart young man.)
Will they beg me to play video games with them when I get home from work? Well, I won't hold my breath.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
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