Reflections on Father's Day -- It All Means Something

Last weekend, I had one of those quiet fatherhood milestones that no one ever told me about. 

I was sitting in the kitchen with my two daughters, wife and their grandmother. I have always been the storyteller in our family... the one recounting -- and maybe embellishing a bit -- the memories of our life as a family. This evening was different. 

Out Banks, NC, 2009?

My daughters, Tess and Emma, are 16 and 18, and they started to tell the stories, sharing their memories of beach vacations in the Outer Banks with their cousins. Their cousin who was terribly afraid of butterflies. The toddler who would exit the pool to say "moo," squat and "fill" her diaper. The nearly "tragic" go-cart debacle when all the cousins had a crash and sent the track attendant into a fit.  I got to see those days from their more adult perspective for a few moments. We laughed a lot. The truth is I realized in that moment it all meant something to them, too.

As a father, you spend a lot of days thinking you are some type of "provider" or "protector" for your family. You may have some type of romanticized ideal of fatherhood. You wonder what that idea of fatherhood means in the suburbs of the 21st century. You hope all the tickling, toys, tuitions, trips and talks mean something to your children. And, you may wonder about that often until you sit in the kitchen on a spring day and they tell you about a memory they have.

It All Means Something

On my walk this morning, I thought about my nearly 80-year old father and a few of the "little boy" memories I may not have shared with him.  

I remember the time we picked up some Sabrett hotdogs from a "dirty water truck" on Danforth Avenue in Jersey City. As we drove away, I bit into my hotdog and discovered it smothered in mustard -- not ketchup (yes, I like ketchup on hotdogs -- but that is a whole other story). I was probably 7 or 8 years old and I was ticked off, so I rolled down the window of my Dad's Chevy Impala and threw my hotdogs right out the car window and cried. Somehow my father held it together and didn't throw me out of the car window after them. Ha! Supreme patience.It meant something.

I remember my Dad sitting in the stands for countless basketball games, or in the dugout for a few Little League baseball seasons. Driving me all over Hudson County for basketball summer leagues. One day, he almost blew a blood vessel when my grammar basketball school team played in the Yanitelli Center at St. Peter's College (the big game), and the coach never put me in for my moment in the big time (I was more relieved than anything considering the game featured my teammate, future Duke Star Bobby Hurley, and future Yankee pitcher Willie Banks on the other team). It meant something.

I remember all the barbecues in our backyard in Jersey City. My father on the grill. Friends and family passing through over the years, everyone cramming onto the patch of grass that was my father's urban "garden." My dog Buddy barking and chasing kids down the alleyway. My mother's deviled eggs. I remember passing food and condiments out of our first floor apartment window and down to folks standing in the yard. Playing darts (real darts, not lawn darts) with an ancient board propped on a ladder in the yard. Family. Fun. Food. Laughs. It meant something. 

I remember being a little boy, visiting my father when he worked at Bell Labs in Murray Hill, NJ. What a huge and mythical place (I would work there 20 years later). How proud my Dad was to show off his son, "Billy" ... "the third," to his crew in the mail room or the machine shops. As we would eat in the cafeteria or walk through those long hallways, everyone seemed to know my Dad and greeted him with a smile and a handshake. Hard work, Pride, Respect. It meant something.

Good times and great memories that helped make me the father I am today. It all meant something, Pop.  It still does. Thank you for everything.  Have a special Father's Day.  Love you...

Father's Day 2019