Some Lucky Bastard
Heading out to see my Dad on Father's Day, I passed the funeral home and saw that the curtain was closed. Of course, I thought of what he used to say when I asked, as a child, 'Who died?'
"Some lucky bastard," he would answer every time.
And I knew he never meant it, the line was just part of his routine. The millions of great lines that will reverberate in my head until the day when I'm the lucky bastard.
Yet seeing Dad at the door today was difficult because without saying anything we are all going through the same pain. The dread, the hurt, the battle...the every day battle to keep our heads above the rising waters.
Father's Day is different though because there is an underlying respect in our greeting to each other. I respect the man he is, and the man he allowed me to be, and he respects the man I did become and the fact that he did the best he could.
And I'm thankful for that even more than the wonderful sense of humor that he displayed on most days.
As we sat and chatted we spoke of Santasario's the Italian Restaurant on Niagara Street. I had just been there.
"Pasta and beans with a side of hot peppers," he said.
"That's exactly what he ordered!" Kathy said.
"Of course it is," Dad said. But I could tell that he was proud that I had mimicked his order.
We all chatted for over an hour. Mom telling a story, followed by Dad, followed by him barking at my boys. All in good fun. All with impassioned irritation that hardly masked his undying love.
Happy Father's Day!
There are so many ways to get it done, but the phrases uttered by our Father's will stay with us forever.
"Who died?" I asked as our visit was winding down.
"Some lucky bastard," Dad said with a wry smile, but then he mentioned the man's name, and we lapsed into a sense of true loss.
As I kissed him goodbye, he handed me a can of anchovy's in olive oil.
"Who's going to give you a better Father's Day present then that?" he asked.
"Absolutely nobody," I said.
Thanks, Dad.
"Some lucky bastard," he would answer every time.
And I knew he never meant it, the line was just part of his routine. The millions of great lines that will reverberate in my head until the day when I'm the lucky bastard.
Yet seeing Dad at the door today was difficult because without saying anything we are all going through the same pain. The dread, the hurt, the battle...the every day battle to keep our heads above the rising waters.
Father's Day is different though because there is an underlying respect in our greeting to each other. I respect the man he is, and the man he allowed me to be, and he respects the man I did become and the fact that he did the best he could.
And I'm thankful for that even more than the wonderful sense of humor that he displayed on most days.
As we sat and chatted we spoke of Santasario's the Italian Restaurant on Niagara Street. I had just been there.
"Pasta and beans with a side of hot peppers," he said.
"That's exactly what he ordered!" Kathy said.
"Of course it is," Dad said. But I could tell that he was proud that I had mimicked his order.
We all chatted for over an hour. Mom telling a story, followed by Dad, followed by him barking at my boys. All in good fun. All with impassioned irritation that hardly masked his undying love.
Happy Father's Day!
There are so many ways to get it done, but the phrases uttered by our Father's will stay with us forever.
"Who died?" I asked as our visit was winding down.
"Some lucky bastard," Dad said with a wry smile, but then he mentioned the man's name, and we lapsed into a sense of true loss.
As I kissed him goodbye, he handed me a can of anchovy's in olive oil.
"Who's going to give you a better Father's Day present then that?" he asked.
"Absolutely nobody," I said.
Thanks, Dad.
Comments
Cheers