Happy Birthday, Dad

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My brother and my father on Father's Day.

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Actually, this is a little early. Dad's birthday isn't today. His birthday is on Saturday.

But my father and my stepmother will be out of town on his birthday. In fact, they will be out of town most of this month.

Saturday will be a milestone in his life. My father will be 80 on that day. I wish I could share it with him, but I can't so this will have to do.

I guess fatherhood came to him later in life than it does for most. I don't know if that made him a better father than the fathers of the kids I knew when I was growing up. That is probably a matter of opinion — and personal perspective.

I remember once, when he and I were having dinner, somehow our conversation turned to the subject of my childhood, and he apologized for not having been around more when I was a kid. I don't remember exactly how I phrased my response, but I tried to reassure him that it hadn't seemed unusual to me or that I had been deprived in any way. It was just the way it was.

I'm no child psychologist, but I think that most children believe that whatever is normal in their households is what is normal. Depending on the household, that may be a good thing or it may be a bad thing.

In my household, my father was a college professor. What I remember of my preschool years is that Dad was gone when I got up in the mornings and he usually hadn't returned when I went to bed at night. My mother was a stay–at–home mom when my brother and I were small, and she was the one who was there for all the typical childhood events.

Actually, that seemed to be the norm in most of my friends' homes. Fathers went to work, mothers stayed home. It was a time when one parent (typically, the father) could support the family and the other parent (typically, the mother) could stay home and put bandages on skinned knees when not cleaning the house or cooking the meals.

We weren't wealthy. But we never lacked for anything we needed. We had clothes to wear, food on the table and a roof over our heads. And my father made that possible.

Maybe he feels wistful at times when his thoughts turn to things he missed, but I never think of times when I was 6 or 7 and he was absent. I know that he did what men of his generation were expected to do — provide for their families.

And he and my mother made our home a happy one. I can't recall a time when they fought over anything. I remember seeing the parents of some of my other friends get into loud arguments, and I was truly bewildered by the sight. It was so alien to my personal experience.

My parents were human, of course, and I'm sure there were times when they disagreed about some things. But, if they ever got into shouting matches in front of my brother or me, I must have conveniently repressed that memory.

In my experience, it hasn't been easy for men of my generation to communicate with their fathers, and I guess that has been true of my father and me. I had more heart–to–heart conversations with my mother than I did with my father when I was growing up — far more. One of my last memories of my mother is of a conversation I had with her about a problem I was having. I have seldom — if ever — had the same kind of conversation with my father.

Well, I miss my mother very much. Words never seem adequate to express how much. But I'm glad I still have my father.

Happy birthday (a little early), Dad. I love you. And I hope you have a great time on your trip.