My Dad

I never played catch with my Father. He didn’t know how. As a young man growing up in Mexico he had other priorities. Earning a living and getting an education took precedence over beisbol. He might have been a capable futbol player but I never knew. My Dad kept those things to himself.
My own life always seemed like a series of disappointments to my Dad. The few moments that felt like triumphs were met with little acknowledgement, let alone praise. The occasional hug or even rarer fumbled words of encouragement prompted me to finally decide that they were best celebrated within me; in emulation of his life.
There was, however, never a lack of words of caution. “Don’t act silly” was his favorite and most often heard. Really? How else was an immature young man supposed to act? Silliness was my forte, always just below the surface of my personality. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to surface. But his admonishments to stifle that behavior overruled my own feelings. Most of the time anyway.
But as we both grew older I came to understand my Dad. Little by little secrets of his own life surfaced revealing a complex set of ethos held deeply in his heart. His Dad wasn’t around much, leaving my Dad to fend with his siblings. Stories of disappointments, heartaches and frustrations would occasionally be told. But not to me by my Dad. Usually from my brother who never played catch with my Dad either.
Much later I was asked to leave my last real job. You know, that’s just the PC way of saying I was fired. After much debate, I decided to become a self employed handy man. It was tough at first and I literally hit the streets distributing self made flyers door to door. It was from that activity and word of mouth that my business grew.
One day on my weekly lunch visit to my parents my Mom had to make a quick trip to the store for some missing ingredient. It was just my Dad and me sitting at the kitchen table. I savored those times when it was just us two. We could put our guards down and have normal conversations about anything. He asked how work was going. I told him the truth, that things were not bad. He looked at me and in the filtered sunlight coming through the curtains; it almost looked as if his eyes were a little teary. I knew better and wrote it off to the eye drops he used.
In a very quiet tone he told me that he was very proud of how I had built up my own business. To the impartial observer it might have appeared that I had also become teary eyed. I told him that the work ethic in me was learned from him. Before anything else was said, Mom walked in from her errand and the conversation turned to the price of groceries.
I never played catch with my Father, but I learned so much more. Thanks, Dad. Rest in peace.