Dad and I were always pretty different. Politics had something to do with it- I went hard left as I got holder and he would watch Fox News in front of me to get my goat. But we were also just different kinds of people. I’m chatty compared to him, I like to write, and I liked weird music, art and books. Okay, well he grew to like weird books, but it wasn’t a frequent topic of discussion. I digress.
When I turned 18, I moved 400 miles away pretty much for good. The thing is, when you move that far away from family and only make it home a couple of times a year, talking is what sustains the bond. Mom and I would talk all the time- Dad hardly ever wanted to come to the phone.
So when we did talk, I felt like I was always playing catch up. Hearing about his home improvement projects- things I didn’t get the chance to do since I was a mere apartment dweller. Or talking to him about my interest in cars- his surprise when i told him I was a fan of a particular British car repair show. Conversations always too short to get into the why and how- conversations that would’ve been different if we had days and weeks and months and years of hanging out to have them.
Anyways, this past weekend he loomed heavily in my mind. At the home we recently bought (but Dad never go the chance to visit), a leaky gutter was bugging me so I got up on a ladder to inspect it. And we went down to a classic car show in town that was chock a block with amazing sights- mostly American cars, muscle cars of every denomination, and beautiful land yachts that defied description. Dad would’ve loved to see it. And he would’ve loved dispensing advice on that stupid gutter (looks like someone cut a section out and replaced it- so of course it leaks!).
I’m going to have to get used to this, obviously. There will be no more new adventures to tell Dad about, no gentle ribbing back and forth. No nothing. It’s hard, and it’s dragged me down for a few days.
I want to have some uplifting conclusion here, but…