Happy Birthday, Dad

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Whenever I think of my Dad's birthday I flip back in time to 1987.

We were living in New Haven, Connecticut. Just me and Dad. We had been working together at a project that was heading south. Dad was the big boss on the project and I was a clerk of the works, writing long detailed progress reports.

Except in December 1987 Dad made a decision to resign his position and take a job back in Buffalo. It took his replacement about 4 hours to decide my fate:

"We're letting you go," Tony told me. "Given your Dad's situation we feel it's best that you look for something else."

They were firing me just days before Christmas.

(It's still the only job I've ever lost).

Dad really didn't care much for the guy who was standing before me, relieving me of my duties.

So I didn't care for him either.

Tony, who was about 5'7" and 280 pounds, stood next to me as I cleaned out my desk as if I might steal something. There were 40 people in the immediate area, including Dad who was waiting patiently for me to leave.

(Dad had already found me a new position with another contractor on the same site so I wasn't broken-hearted about losing the job).

But I made Dad really proud when I shook the hand of the man who would be taking his place.

"Tony," I said. "I wish you luck, but there are two things that you know nothing about; construction and weight management."

The 40 people gathered roared with laughter.

It was an unbelievable way to leave a job.

We loaded all of Dad's belongings and some of mine and headed to my Mercury Capri for the long trip to Buffalo for the holiday. I kept thinking about the fact that it was Dad's 50th birthday.

50!

Man.

Dad did the driving, of course, because he didn't much trust my driving skills in the blowing snow. We were more than 200 miles from home when the car sputtered and spit and then quit.

Dad edged it to the side of the road and got out. He was swearing. I was quiet.

The hood was open. Cars were flying by. Dad had his head under the hood. He yelled for me to try it. The car made a try at starting but quit again.

Dad jumped back in.

I could see the wheels turning.

Then he smiled.

"Two things you know nothing about, construction and weight management!"

We laughed.

Dad thought a little more.

I couldn't help him. I knew absolutely nothing about the mechanics of a car engine (then or now).

"Crappy way to spend your birthday," I said.

He didn't answer.

"You know," he said. "I think the valve is stuck and the gas isn't getting to the engine."

"That's what I was thinking," I said.

Here we are:

27 years later.

I can still hear the laughter that erupted from Dad.

We laughed about that for years and years.

"That's what I was thinking," he would say.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Miss you.

Love you.

I cherish the laughs.

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