Ask me to share my earliest memories of my father and I’ll whip out a half dozen different snapshots of him. I am about three years-old and standing in the kitchen next to my mom. I ask her to pick me up so that I can see “daddy.” I look out of the window and I see him get out of the car. It is a 197o Dodge Dart. It is Navy Blue and the only “power” anything on it is the engine. I can see the white vinyl seats and hear the clicking noise that the turn signals used to make. They sort of clicked and clacked. I close my eyes and I see him working around the house. I am happy because I get to hold the flashlight.
Flash forward almost 40 years and I wonder what sort of memories my children will have of me. Will they focus on the father who is constantly connected to the computer and his BlackBerry or will they remember dad coaching their soccer teams. Will they see the father who shushes them because he has to take a business call or the guy who rebuilt rebuilt drawers in a broken down bathroom vanity. Will they remember how I would run play basketball with the boys or hit the gym. Or will they think of the time we spent reading together.
Will they tell their friends of the father who stayed up all night working on deadlines for the office or the man who would sometimes meet them for lunch at school. Will they remember my laughter or my anger. Will they remember the soft voice of the guy who was understanding or the louder fellow who got fed up and yelled.
I suspect that their memories won’t be all that different from my own and that it will be a mishmash of things. I can share more tales of my father. Some of them have turned into family legends and others…not so much. Life is so very sweet, I wish that I would experience more of it.