Dad

“Cow shit I know?” That was a classic #dadjoke of my childhood. It was a spin on “How should I know?” and got laughs every time it was deployed. But being dad hilarious isn’t all that he brings to the table.

He’s always worked incredibly hard. He’s had other endeavors throughout his career, but the one was spanned my childhood and beyond was that of dirt trucking owner. Summers were busy, up and gone early. I was able to go with a few times. The 80’s were the good old days when children could go out on road construction jobs. I remember that he’d be as excited as my dad gets to have someone along who could load a chip with dip. That’s not really something one should do when driving an 18 wheeler. My keep was earned by putting Frito bean dip on chips and passing them along. To this day, for me fresh asphalt is the smell of contentment.

It was important to him that those in his circle work hard too. This doesn’t mean that I did work hard as a child, not a fucking bit. At one point, my room was so messy it required cleaning via rake. But his efforts to instill work ethic were important to him nonetheless. He’d very consistently tell me “get in around those lug nuts real good” whenever we’d make some attempt to help wash trucks. If you’ve seen my attempts to wash my car, you’d know that us washing was about me learning instead of about me actually being helpful.

He and my mom have been self-employed as long as I can remember. I think it taught me to appreciate things that simply don’t exist when you own your own businesses like, paid vacation, sick leave, unions etc.

He’s fiercely attached to continuing to work hard. He had a lil surgery a couple years ago in his late 70’s. I went to see them at the hospital. He was wearing “fall risk” bracelet. The kind of thing that tells the staff, “this one could hit the deck, be careful.”

I was confused, “Well, they asked me if I’ve fallen recently. I have.”

“Uh,…you had climbed up on a tractor tire and fell off. I’m pretty sure that’s not what they mean.” Septaugenarians aren’t supposed to shimmy up the sides of tractors. They just aren’t. But that doesn’t stop my dad.

He’s strong willed, and able to defend his position on a subject with great verbal sparring. This may or may not be have been the foundation for the skill set I’ve developed; if my work peers and I were the Spice Girls, I’d definitely be “Bitchy Spice.” Not that he (or I) look for arguments, but should they come our way, we’re ready.

My dad’s values are on lock. Remember that he’s where I learned the most important thing any adult can know; all we HAVE to do is eat and shit. Everything else is our choice. I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t a closet social worker. Buuuuuttt, if that statement doesn’t embody the SW value of “client right to self-determination,” I don’t know what does. He has high standards for himself, and high expectations of others.

He’s smart AF. Sometimes it’s fun to just hit him with some complex math just so he can impress with brain power. Need to know how to get somewhere in a place he hasn’t been for 30 years? He’ll give you spot on directions about taking “the” whatever highway to “the” other whatever highway (City people and former city people always say “the” before a highway name/number. It’s science. Try it.)

Fresh out of high school, he moved from Minnesota to southern California. He was a successful business owner there. We vacationed at good ol’ Whiskeytown Lake. Always thinking about the next level-up, he wanted to raise my brother and I here, out of the city. While I selfishly think that was a good choice, I also know that had they not made that move, they’d have done their best to have us have an equally but different kind of wonderful life in So Cal too.

My dad is 81 now. Healthy as they come. He’s got no problem driving cross-country is a motor home. He’s likely scheming his next venture as I type this.

I’m incredibly thankful for all that he’s instilled. I no longer have to clean my room with a rake. I’m mindful of thermostat settings and open doors. I know how to drive a stick shift. And I know not to take things for granted. I love you, Dad. Thank you!