Dad

There are some days of the year that make me introspective. Father’s Day – the day to remember Dad –  is one of those days. The last five years, I have celebrated the actual day by having BBQ at a little food-truck restaurant in Seaside, Florida called Barefoot BBQ. There is something about staring at the ocean that makes my introspection ponder deity rather than myself.

This year my sight was not set on the Gulf of Mexico but the Ohio River. Instead of white caps and dolphins, my gaze was upon old tires and carp. But the day was delightful. Sarah and Rachel provided our lunch destination after church – a BBQ spot in Louisville called City BBQ. The girls had pulled pork sandwiches and I enjoyed the beef brisket. Rob joined us for supper and we stirred memories of Cincinnati as we ate Skyline Chili. Rob’s Super 3-Way was the largest plate of spaghetti that I have seen in ages. We stopped at the Pie Kitchen on the way home and bought upside down cupcakes. Somehow my introspection turned rather … ummm … weighty.

Through it all, I thought often of my father. Looking back, I don’t remember very much of what Dad said to me. Instead, I remember what he modeled for me. Love your wife and family – even her family. Work hard and always give your best. Be at church on Sundays. Love sports even if you aren’t very good at them.

My dad loved to play games. One of his favorites was the card game euchre. He taught us to play at a young age. Though we played often, a favorite tradition was staying up all night on New Year’s Eve playing euchre with anyone in the family who wanted to play. Dad was an incredible player, with skills honed from the years that he spent on the road while working for Public Service of Indiana.

As I was learning to play the game, I would eagerly anticipate being dealt the killer hand. Two Jacks of the same color, married to three aces or running alongside three same suit cards matching one of the Jacks. Very early on, I cultivated the skills to be unbeatable when dealt those cards.

Problem was – those hands didn’t come very often. When I was young, it always seemed as if Dad got those hands and the competitor in me was frustrated. “Why does he always get the good cards?” As I grew older, I learned that Dad made winning hands from mediocre cards. “You made trump on THAT?!?” He paid attention to what was played, he bet as if every hand was an unbeatable collection, he calculated the best way to play the cards that he had, and he took advantage of the mistakes of others. More often than not, it was a winning combination for my father.

Several of the hands that I was dealt weren’t even mediocre. They were more like the south-bound end of a north-bound donkey. Three nines, a ten and a queen. No trumps. As the cards were being dealt, I would peek at each card and my heart would sink, lower and lower, and my countenance would follow. I wanted to just toss in the hand, anxiously awaiting the next deal. I wouldn’t pay attention to what I played. I wouldn’t watch what others played. The hand was bad; it really didn’t matter.

About college age, I began to notice something about how Dad had always played when I had a great hand. He would be the one that kept me from winning all of the tricks and getting two points. He always trumped one of my off Aces. Many times he would throw away an Ace just so that he wouldn’t have any of that suit in his hand. He almost always kept the right suit on the final card, and was usually able to beat my card. Often I would purposely keep back a different card than I thought I should, and Dad would still have saved the suit and beat my card. Dad showed me that you play even the bad hands to the final card.

My father passed away three days before my first scheduled date with Beth. She, Sarah, Stephanie and Rachel never knew my father. Rob was probably three the last time that he spent moments with Dad.

And in my times of introspection – that makes me incredibly sad.

Beth, my father would have treasured you. In many ways he would have been your shining knight in armor. He would have admired your ability to teach first graders, encouraged you as you raised four children, and whispered to you with suggestions about how to deal with my mom, grandfather and grandmother. And he would have held your hand when you didn’t see any way that you could do all of that.

Sarah and Rachel, Dad would have been your champion. You would never have filled up your own gas tank when he was near, let alone pay for it. He would have built you anything you needed. His middle name was IKEA. He would have helped you move. And move. And move. You would have sought his counsel as you made life decisions. He would have cheered for you the loudest.

Rob, my dad would have embraced the things that you enjoyed. He wouldn’t have missed a band competition. He would have learned to play video games with you. He would have bought his own consoles and games so he could practice when you weren’t around. And he would have learned one of them well enough to beat you on occasion.

Stephanie, my father would have cherished you. Dad was gruff around the edges. He didn’t like to speak in public, almost shy if you took him out of his area of expertise. Of his own words, he couldn’t carry a tune in a number 10 washtub. On the surface one would surmise that you would have had nothing in common. But as I watched him be an incredible father to my youngest sister, he proved that he knew how to treat a princess, with just the right blend of intention and tenderness. I wish I had learned that sooner.

Children, you would have loved my father. He was so much more than I could ever hope to be. Your heart would have smiled when he was near.

You would have learned to play euchre and life very well.