I didn't want to write this after he was gone.
I didn't want to be one of those guys, those writer guys, who wrote about their dads after he had passed, waxing philosophical about missed opportunities.
My dad's still alive, and still kicking. He fixes air conditioners and houses; along with my mom they run a business out of the house, a handyman/repair service that consistently does good work. My dad and I are kind of different, but kind of the same: I'm almost worthless with my hands, able to jumpstart a car or fix a tire but little else, while my dad's a master, wielding almost McGyver-like skill, improvising repairs while on the road in order to get you just that much farther. We're alike because we both have to use our minds in what we do, and I get a kind of singleminded focus from him (if only I could harness it for activities beyond Star Wars trivia.)
He's also taught me, by example, a kind of strength to aspire to. When he was younger, he suffered an accident that caused his right heel to be shattered, and in most places, with most people, he would be crippled, wheelchair bound and maybe invalid. Then, in the '90s, he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, a neurological disorder. Through this and other trials, he's never lost his perspective, his sense of humor, or his sense of honesty.
He's guided me into places I never thought I could go, and he's supported me in each endeavor wholeheartedly. That doesn't mean he won't tell me when I am wrong about something, and we frequently argue about things. He wants me to write a book about his life, using his voice. That's something that I may (or may not) be able to do; anything I write will be in my voice, or at least influenced by it.
He's in his midfifties, and is kind of an everyman. Not in the sense that you'll see him around town, no matter what town you live in; he's not generic. To me he's the yardstick against which all other fathers are measured. Every time I learn something new about him, the dimensions of that yardstick change. I think this is where he's the same as fathers all over the country, all over the world: children often don't understand that their parents were people long before their own steps on the stage, and that their parents' parts weren't always to their liking. He was married before, has other children which aren't often in contact, despite my dad's repeated forays into their world. He's recently met with more success than in the past, and I hope that will continue.
I suppose I'm quite lucky, you see. I didn't want to write this after he was gone, and now he's going to read this, and he'll know just a small bit of the feeling I have for him. He's a solid fixture in my life, a lighthouse, an anchor, and I could go on and on with the metaphors, but I won't.
Because all he really wants for Father's Day is a simple statement.
I love you, Dad. Thanks.
(And I need my air conditioner fixed in my car. It's summer.)
David Ryan Palmer is not normally this sappy, but come on, it's Father's Day. Cut him some slack, or e-mail him at nonah.me@gmail.com
Sulphur, La. —
