The annual June weekend dedicated to Fathers is great. Dad appreciates the necktie, weed whacker and funny card with a monkey on it looking for the remote control.
But what Dad really likes is hanging out with you.
Aside from the enormous forehead real estate we boast and the fact that my mom is married to him, my Dad and I weren’t dead ringers in my youth.
He likes hunting.
I was shot with a pellet gun in the right butt-cheek by my brother. My relationship with guns hasn’t been great since then.
He played jazz trumpet.
I grew my hair out long and bought a guitar.
His handwriting is illegible.
I practiced my cursive. (Which I still have never used.)
But I like venison jerky. I learned to like Maynard Ferguson. I realize now the similarities in our script with the letter “K” in Kurt and Kelsey are too great to be anything but genetic.
Every day is Father’s day when you can share something with your Dad. Sitting on the deck with a beer, talking about the lawn, talking about baseball, talking about that vacation your family took when you were little. He likes making you breakfast and he likes when you do something nice for Mom. He doesn’t like talking on the phone, but he likes when you call—which you should do more often.
When I bought my car, I drove it up to my parents’ house. I had all the details memorized. Engine size, miles-per-gallon, cubic feet of trunk space… I knew the car in and out. Trebek couldn’t have stumped me, much less my Dad. But he didn’t ask any questions. Just nodded approval. I tossed him the key. “Want to take take it for a test drive?” I asked. He threw the it back almost as quickly. “Nope,” he said. “I’ll ride shotgun.” He opened the passenger door and got in. He didn’t want to drive my new car. He wanted to watch me drive my new car.
So while Dad appreciates the necktie and the weed whacker and the funny monkey on the card, what Dad really likes, what Dad really loves, is you.