Father Knows Best (Posted 6/17/07)
I love when my dad tells stories about his youth. They’re usually thinly disguised lessons, although not the follow-in-my-footsteps kind of lessons most dads teach through tales that start with hard work and determination, end with success and pride, and somewhere in the middle, there’s a snowy hill they have to walk up (both ways). No, my dad’s stories taught me exactly what not to do, should I want to live past age 30 and remain unincarcerated. For example, I learned that if I ever have too much to drink and the drive shift on my car doesn’t work, I shouldn’t drive home on the freeway in reverse. Or if I’m flying somewhere, bringing a tray of pot brownies as your carry-on is a bad choice. You know, basic stuff.
But my favorite story my dad tells is the one where he, at age 15 or so, wanted to get a motorcycle. His dad, my grandpa, forbade it on account of my dad being a reckless youth and a motorcycle being death on two wheels. My dad kept pestering him about the bike, and every time, grandpa’s reply was the same: “No, son. You’ll break your goddamn leg.” Eventually, though, the desire outweighed the possible punishment, so my dad went behind his father’s back and bought a motorcycle. The first night he drove it, he slipped on some wet leaves, hurting the bike and himself. He limped home, barely able to walk, and went directly to bed so his belt-wielding dad wouldn’t find out about his injury and the unforbidden purchase that caused it. Although the pain prevented him from sleeping, he waited until his dad left for work the next morning before tossing off the bloodied sheets and getting up to tell his mom about what had happened. She immediately took him to the doctor, and sure enough, he had broken his goddamn leg.
The lesson? Listen to your father. I have so far, and I have the clean criminal record to prove it. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! Thanks for keeping me out of your footsteps.
