10.14.2002

 

This past weekend was Dad's Weekend in the cornfield. Picture in your head, if you will, images of fathers doing the macarena and twirling rhythm gymnastic streamers around and showing off a twirling routine that one dutiful father had clearly practiced with his daughter. Sounds awful, but it was actually really great to see. Dads are wonderful things, and when they willingly make asses of themselves to provoke a smile on the face of their kid, and 10,000 other kids who happen to see the same thing, they elevate themselves in the present time to that lofty position they may only otherwise occupy in memory and eulogy.

Saturday night, as I walked down the street holding hands with a beautiful girl, which just happens to be one of my favorite things to do on a Saturday night, I saw a number of fathers out with their kiddies doing their best to have a little fun, cornfield style.

Could you imagine walking into a bar with your father, ordering a double and glancing around the bar to find which hot girl you were going to talk about first? I can.

I miss my father all the time. I miss him a little more when I watch other guys tossing footballs around with their dads, when I see them throwing back a few beers as they stand around the grill watching the burgers cook or even running out into the end zone to do push-ups together to celebrate their team's most recent touchdown.

More than five years have past since I could do these things with my dad. Not that these actions happened everyday when we did live in the same geography, but that potential always sat latently somewhere. I never knew when he was going to look up and say, "hey, let's go shoot some pool" or "you mind helping shock the pool and wash the car this afternoon?" Such simple statements and actions always seemed like the most simple of affirmations of the father-son relationship and its importance to both of us. Dad always managed to convey that to me so effortlessly.

I realized this weekend that any more, I see my family maybe three to four times a year. Always over the winter holidays, usually once in the summer, sometimes around Thanksgiving, and occasionally one other random visit, death in the family or whatever other opportunity comes up. Far too little, but as much as practicality honestly permits, given constraints on time, money and distance. I understand this and accept it at face value: I know leaving California and my family was a decision I consciously made, and I know the separation I feel from them sometimes has come about because of my own actions and ongoing decisions. I usually try to parlay this feeling of separation and awareness that I am the prime maker of that separation into a deeper appreciation of the time I do get with my father, my mother and my sister.

But I still feel very jealous that I couldn't knock back a few beers this weekendwith my dad and see who could eat more burgers in a ten-minute span.

This post has no direction. I think I just miss my dad, and I didn't realize how much until a few days ago. But that's okay. I had a great weekend anyway.