The years click by. I’m sitting here trying to remember being a kid. From what I recollect, I was a happy kid. I wonder if those who knew me then would depict me that way? Regardless, I’m glad that’s how I remember my childhood.
I’m 60 now, and the past hasn’t changed – it’s still happy. Fate may eventually have its way with me, but it’s already so far in the hole that it’s going to have to really give me a beating just to get back to even [not that I doubt its capacity to destroy on a whim].
My father always told me that my beating was coming. Of course, there were times he wanted to be the delivery man, but he knew that I would get mine eventually. When he met my future in-laws, all he did was laugh and say, “oh yah, you’ll get yours – in spades.” Whenever I would trip and fall, all he’d want to know was “how’d that feel?” He always took pleasure in the vagaries of life slapping me around. He wanted me ready for the inevitable shit storm. He always knew it was lurking right around the corner. Only a fool wouldn’t be ready for the challenge. He made sure I was ready.
He did a great job. I hope my kids end up as happy with their life as I have.
That’s about it for me as this Father’s Day approaches. I simply had a father who wanted me to be my own man. Social status meant less than nothing to him. In fact, any recognition of the sort was an insult [mostly sought for and fawned over by sycophants and fools]. Fame and wealth were not the measure of man in his book. A big bank account didn’t make a man smart. Notoriety did not make a man significant. Independence, virility, and athleticism – those were the low class values he pounded into me. The key to enjoying life was simple: walk your own road for better or worse, and when the bill comes due – pay it.