Yes, my Dad was

This is perhaps the most important piece I'll write today. So important, that I'd procrastinate until the last four hours to write the darn thing. But if I procrastinate, if I hesitated at all, it's because it was just THAT important. This is supposed to be an essay. You know that thing in college you write with a thesis, a paragraph, a body, and a conclusion? Somewhere along the way, I turned into a diary, and emotion seeped into the grammatical sinews.

My earliest memory of my father is a black-and-white image of him spoon-feeding me grits. As a child, he says I knocked over a bottle of his favorite cologne, but I have no recollection of that event. If there is one word that describes my father, that word is present. Dad was always there. I remember a harrowing moment as a child when my mother, sister, and I were separated from my dad very briefly. Outside of that, looking back, I don't remember there being a moment without my dad. It's weird calling him that by the way -- it's Sir, and that's the last I want to hear about it.

Growing up, my mother worked, and dad would spend time with my sister and me, studying the bible, making sandwiches, and watching classic movies. Mom was the disciplinarian, Dad was a good cop. To this day, I still turn my head at kissing. I watched Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers along with other wholesome entertainment. Through my dad, I learned to love classic movies with images of stalwart heroes such as John Wayne, and even funny, hunched-over man with the painted mustache.

I remember seeing him work on the back of the Festiva. Time after time, he'd tear down, just to rebuild. He spent hours drinking coffee and working out of a garage. I suppose through it, I learned a thing or two about dedication and hard work.

I remember the day; my sister and I told my dad about the flying car we were going to build as he swept the back porch. As an adult, scolding younger me, I probably wouldn't have listened, but my dad did. He listened and was engaged. "Invent one of those and everyone will buy one," you said. I don't know if we'd still want a car that could dig today.

Your birthday is the reason I look forward to the next Madden released each year, even though it's become a simulation instead of the Arcade football it used to be on the Genesis, and we've quit playing it. It's come a long way since the days of Joe Montana, and the pixelated medics who carried a stretcher onto a field. Or the days since Super Monoco, and Ferrari and Madonna. Or even thunder force.

As I have aged, I'm beginning to see things your way now. From the joys of relaxation after a hard work week on Saturday, to the simple pleasures of taking a nap, to being able to close the doors and simply enjoy solitude. I still don't care for the taste of German chocolate cake, oatmeal raisin cookies, or Carrot cake, but those items are impactful because I know you enjoy those things. I have nothing except the fondest respect.

Although, the passage of time may have eroded the things I had to say, and words may have escaped me on the wind of the way I wanted to say them. A finite medium such as words may never encapsulate how immeasurably grateful, I am to have had an example such as my dad in my life. I will say this: Thanks, Dad.