You know the dads who push their children to succeed? Who, during middle school basketball games, yell from the stands, "Jump the passing lanes! MOVE those FEET! Hustle!"
You know the dads who, in their weakness, their failures, their hopes, live vicariously through their children, to direct them down a path of their perceived success, but in the process discourage a child from pursuing truly desired passions? You know those dads?
That was never my Dad. I don't know if he read a ton of handbooks on parenting, or if he took notes during his own childhood–my gramps was probably a successful dad too, based on his strong granddaddy-ness–or if his actions were simply innate to his character, but my Dad did a lot of things really right (and, uh, that's said in the most modest of ways possible). In my transition to this adulthood bullshit, and even before now when I was in the half-reality of college, I really began to appreciate the many beautiful things that my Dad did. I never told him that. Perhaps I should. Now. And perhaps I'll do it in a letter.
Dear Dad,
Many years ago, you told me over the phone that the full moon, the one I was looking at from California and the one you were looking at from Oregon, was the same moon. This blew my mind, and I still remember that moment, that discovery, like it was yesterday.
And I don't mention it now to praise your proficiency in science but because it represents something more; that is, for as long as I can remember, even as far back as when I didn't know just one moon orbited the Earth, you always made a concerted effort to call me, to chat. You did this way back then, and you do this now, and I wish I could aptly describe the deep sense of love and appreciation I feel for having someone who, not only in my trials and achievements but in the far more common banalities astride those two extremes, listens, ever interested and ever supportive.
And when I moved to Connecticut, you got into this habit of saying near the end of our talks, "I'll give you a call in the next couple of days."
Then, after seeing you at Christmas break, after I'd flown back to Connecticut, I was standing outside the airport and gave you a call, and it was a tough call because, whereas in previous ones I knew I'd see you at Christmas, during this one I couldn't help but wonder when I'd see you next. But then, as the call neared its end, you said those words that I'd grown so accustomed to: "I'll give you a call in the next couple of days," and they were different somehow. They moved me to tears that nearly broke. Because while our next reunion was uncertain, I knew you'd still call, and that was all-important to me. And is.
Part of why I'm not sure when we'll next convene stems from the inspiration for this letter–something you're going to do that has profoundly affected me, and something that, I think, reveals much about you and, with luck, me: You're going to move to the Caribbean, buy a sailboat and live on it because you love that, the sailing and the Caribbean and the living. Unlike others, who postpone the living to get through the dying, you're taking a leap, a risk from the standpoint of moderate people, and I admire it greatly.
Another discovery you shared with me when I was young was this simple concept: money isn't everything. When you said that, my adolescent mind tripped on it. And over the years, as I watched you live by that overused yet underestimated mantra, my respect and love for you only compounded. You hunt happiness, no matter conventions.
And that's how I want to live my life, too.
...
To help fund the voyage, my Dad is offering trips to the Caribbean on his boat. Follow the link to learn more.
You know the dads who, in their weakness, their failures, their hopes, live vicariously through their children, to direct them down a path of their perceived success, but in the process discourage a child from pursuing truly desired passions? You know those dads?
That was never my Dad. I don't know if he read a ton of handbooks on parenting, or if he took notes during his own childhood–my gramps was probably a successful dad too, based on his strong granddaddy-ness–or if his actions were simply innate to his character, but my Dad did a lot of things really right (and, uh, that's said in the most modest of ways possible). In my transition to this adulthood bullshit, and even before now when I was in the half-reality of college, I really began to appreciate the many beautiful things that my Dad did. I never told him that. Perhaps I should. Now. And perhaps I'll do it in a letter.
Dear Dad,
Many years ago, you told me over the phone that the full moon, the one I was looking at from California and the one you were looking at from Oregon, was the same moon. This blew my mind, and I still remember that moment, that discovery, like it was yesterday.
And I don't mention it now to praise your proficiency in science but because it represents something more; that is, for as long as I can remember, even as far back as when I didn't know just one moon orbited the Earth, you always made a concerted effort to call me, to chat. You did this way back then, and you do this now, and I wish I could aptly describe the deep sense of love and appreciation I feel for having someone who, not only in my trials and achievements but in the far more common banalities astride those two extremes, listens, ever interested and ever supportive.
And when I moved to Connecticut, you got into this habit of saying near the end of our talks, "I'll give you a call in the next couple of days."
Then, after seeing you at Christmas break, after I'd flown back to Connecticut, I was standing outside the airport and gave you a call, and it was a tough call because, whereas in previous ones I knew I'd see you at Christmas, during this one I couldn't help but wonder when I'd see you next. But then, as the call neared its end, you said those words that I'd grown so accustomed to: "I'll give you a call in the next couple of days," and they were different somehow. They moved me to tears that nearly broke. Because while our next reunion was uncertain, I knew you'd still call, and that was all-important to me. And is.
Part of why I'm not sure when we'll next convene stems from the inspiration for this letter–something you're going to do that has profoundly affected me, and something that, I think, reveals much about you and, with luck, me: You're going to move to the Caribbean, buy a sailboat and live on it because you love that, the sailing and the Caribbean and the living. Unlike others, who postpone the living to get through the dying, you're taking a leap, a risk from the standpoint of moderate people, and I admire it greatly.
Another discovery you shared with me when I was young was this simple concept: money isn't everything. When you said that, my adolescent mind tripped on it. And over the years, as I watched you live by that overused yet underestimated mantra, my respect and love for you only compounded. You hunt happiness, no matter conventions.
And that's how I want to live my life, too.
...
To help fund the voyage, my Dad is offering trips to the Caribbean on his boat. Follow the link to learn more.