What is it about dads that they so often play the Bad Cop? Wait til your father gets home! My mom played this card with us frequently, right up until I was nineteen and she told me, "Your father would be so disappointed if you got pregnant."
"Really mom? I'd have to be having sex for that to happen, so I think we're pretty safe," I threw back at her.
Yeah, I was lying, but I hated the fact that she tried to demonize my dad.
There were times when I was a kid that thought I was the only one who wasn't afraid of my dad. I'm sure that wasn't the case, but I know younger sister always cowered in mom's shadow. I didn't get along with mom, so dad was my refuge.
First and foremost, my dad was a hockey fan. After he died, in March of 2003, I watched the rest of the season in his honor. Then the lockout came, and I was disgusted on his behalf. I refused to watch when the season finally started, partly out of protest, and partly because it was too painful to know my dad was not also watching. We used to call each other between periods.
"What about that call on McCarty? Wasn't that a load of sh*t?" He'd tell me stories about the Wings of long ago. He was never able to afford season tickets, but was fortunate to have a friend with a pair who took my dad to nearly every home game for years.
The friend was Father Stromske. You see, my dad worked at a Catholic church and school for thirty-eight years. People called him the janitor, but in today's world, he'd be called the building engineer. He did all the small-to-medium repairs and upkeep, coordinated the big ones with the licensed folk, and supervised the cleaning staff.
Most of my siblings and I attended this school. Tuition was waived for employees, so my dad stayed even though the pay was complete crap. Wednesdays were hot dog days. The only day of the week that you could buy lunch at school. If we forgot our money, dad was right there. We were the only kids who got to go into the depths of the boiler room, his office was in the back.
At age fifteen, I got my first job, working for my dad. I had heard stories of how, when my brother chose not to go to college, my dad set him up with a professional painter as an apprentice. Dad told the guy to give big brother all the worst jobs, so he'd hate it and go to school instead. I don't know if it worked, but I do know big brother got an associate's degree after he quit painting. I'm pretty sure he tried to make my job nasty for the same reason; not for a degree, but so I'd find something better.
Didn't work. I loved it. I still love taking things apart and fixing them. I still love manual labor in the garden. I still love cutting the grass and tinkering with things. I'll make a great retiree.
Wow. Apparently, I have a lot to say on this topic, but this post is getting too long. I'll post more later this week. Happy father's day to all you dads out there. Have a lovely, relaxing day.
