Dad always had a belly button lint collection. Oh, I know that’s bizarre . . . believe me I know—and it’s also kind of gross. Well, alright, it’s really pretty disgusting, but it’s the truth. He really had one and he kept it in a little wicker chicken on the fireplace mantle. See the chicken was kind of like one of those pantyhose eggs things—it’d open up and you could put stuff in it. Well, apparently one night, when he was bored beyond belief, he must have opened it up and thought—as any right thinking adult man would think--“hey, this is a great place to collect belly button lint.”
Anyway, whatever his particular line of reasoning—whatever random thoughts and bizarre ideas led him to do this, he did it. And he kept doing it until mom found out—which, I think was his goal all along—he kept doing it until mom found out and was, of course, thoroughly horrified and disgusted and absolutely let him have it. Yeah, mom didn’t see any humor in the 40 or so little balls of lint with an occasional hair popping out of them . . . but we did. We were little and unsophisticated and let me tell you, that was funny stuff.
Dad also had an invisible friend. His name was Bob. Eventually, as time went by, Bob came to inhabit the body of a stuffed Alf doll—you know, that old tv show about the alien? The hairy brown puppet that liked to eat cats? Anyway, dad found an old Alf doll in our basement one day and started carting him all over the place—wherever dad went, Bob went too. Bob ate dinner with us, he sat in dad’s chair with him at night, when dad was out on the road overnight making sales calls on the East side of the state, Bob went with him, buckled safely in the passenger seat of dad’s van. When dad called us at night, the first thing we’d hear when we picked up the phone was the thumping of Bob’s little furry, stuffed hand against the receiver. Then, we’d have to ask how Bob was doing and dad would fill us in. And let me tell you, Bob lived it up. Dad always said Bob spent the nights at the Hootchie Kootchie establishments. I didn’t know what those were until a few years ago. And you know what, I’m pretty sure Bob was just making it up—I mean, he always talked a good story, but that’s usually all it was with him—talk. Afterall, he was stuffed.
When winter came, dad started getting excited for Christmas. He absolutely loved Christmas when we were growing up . . . and he’s passed that on to me. The whole magic of that day was something that dad lived all year for. In fact, I remember waking my sisters up at 5:30 am on Christmas morning when I was in High School with the words “Get up—Santa’s been here.” Oh, we none of us believed it, but it was all part of the way Dad talked and thought about Christmas. I don’t know if I remember once dad ever taking credit for presents purchased—they were always brought by Santa in dad’s mind.
In the Spring . . . when the weather started to turn and those warmer, windy days of March came sweeping through, dad was always the first guy anywhere to buy a kite at Meijers. Then we’d take to the front yard, standing in the sun that wasn’t quite warm enough to be without coats, standing surrounded by melting snow, surrounded, but still standing on patches of green grass as we stared up into the sky, following a slowly curving white kite string until we found dad’s kite way, way up there—a long tail made from mom’s good dish towels hanging down and keeping it steady. Dad could do that for hours. And he did. And we helped—sometimes holding the string, sometimes just watching, sometimes looking out for planes that we were sure were going to hit the kite—after all, dad usually had it up there 2 or 3 rolls of string high. In fact, if you squinted just right, you could see the little end rolls way up in the air where the string had run out and dad had tied a new roll on.
When summer hit, Dad took to the outdoors once again and this time, there were basically only three things he needed: a baseball, a glove and me. And we’d spend hours in the yard, throwing the ball back and forth. He’d throw grounders and I’d dive for them. He’d throw pop-up and I’d dive for them. He’d throw line drives and I’d dive for them. All the while, as I was diving, making big league catches left and right, dad would tell me to stay on my feet—that I’d make more plays from my feet than I would laying on the grass. I tried to listen, but man, I loved to dive . . . .
When we got tired of catch, we’d get out a bat and he’d pitch to me . . . somehow finding energy that only now, when I’m a father myself, I’m amazed he had. He’d pitch ball after ball and just let me pound them all over the yard. Then we’d walk around and pick them up and do it again.
Of course, from those days on the yard, as I got older, we transitioned into little league and dad found time to be the coach—every year of little league that I played, he coached. And he was great—I mean, he never really played baseball himself—he always said he rode the bench on the high school team—but he understood something that so many folks seem to forget: that baseball’s a game and that a game, above all else, is supposed to be fun. Sure, it’s a skill to learn, but above all else it’s a game. And dad made sure we had fun playing it. He’d get all of the kids on the team together and somehow, he’d turn those summer days into the most exciting, most hilarious experiences I’ve ever had. The other kids always thought he was tremendously funny and when I wasn’t busy being embarassed because of the goofy things he’d do, I was laughing, too.
Well, after all these years, I now find myself with a family of my own and I realize that the burden’s on my shoulders to be that same guy for my kids. To find the time to play even when I’m tired, to find a way to step outside of myself and maybe talk to an invisible friend when we’re standing in a restaurant—you know, just for laughs. Or maybe to start my own belly-button lint collection. (I’ll have to look and see if we’ve got a wicker chicken or something like that)
Anyway, whatever I do, whenever I’m out with the kids, laughing and having a blast, I always think back on those days from my childhood and I realize how much I owe to my dad. Oh, he taught me how to have fun and how to laugh at everything and all that, sure, but he taught me more important things, too. He taught me that there’s nothing more important—no job, no career, no toy, no car—that there’s nothing more important than your family and what you do for them and with them. All our years growing up, dad never had a fancy job or a big salary. Never. I’m sure he’d have welcomed it—I mean really, who wouldn’t like to be successful in the eyes of everybody looking at you? And he could have pursued all of those things—he could have chased success—at least that kind of success--down. But he chose to chase a different kind of success—a success that lasts way beyond the trinkety success he could have had. He chose to pour himself into us. He worked his job—and he works his job now to the absolute best of his ability—putting more into his effort than many folks I know. But his heart has always been somewhere else. His drive through life has been to enjoy his kids and enjoy his family and to make sure that we grew up enjoying life. And that’s a success far greater than a couple convertibles parked in a 4 stall garage. That’s a success that lasts for generations. Because he’s taught me, by his actions, not so much just with words, he’s taught me what’s truly important and what truly matters. And I plan to pass that same thing on to my kids.
Thanks dad for everything you’ve done. It’s not something I say often enough, but you’ve made me who I am—good or bad, belly-button lint collection and all. Thanks and Happy Father’s Day.
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