I’ve written about my mother quite a bit over the years. Often to lament how I’m turning into her as I age, or to give her shit about about passing on her thick thighs and strong distaste for ironing. But the truth is, I’m a pretty even mix of my parents. A few years ago, I even wrote about how I was becoming my parents (you can reread that post here).
Today is my father’s 79th birthday, so I’ve decided to pay homage to the man who gave me just as many physical traits and character flaws as my mother. So to the guy who’s never without a story or a Rolling Rock, this one’s for you.
My dad is a natural born helper who would literally give you the shirt off his back if it made your life easier. He is loyal to a fault and giving beyond his means. He makes sacrifices that others wouldn’t even consider. I like to think that he’s passed those traits on to me as well, in addition to a strong work ethic, desire to learn and grow, and the moxie to fight for what I believe in. Some call that last trait stubbornness, but we prefer to think of it as determination.
Growing up, I was a daddy’s girl and thought Tom Dewey was the smartest, funniest, coolest guy around. He was always dancing and singing (poorly) and making us laugh. When I was little, he taught me how to hit a ball and he never missed a softball game, basketball game, or dance recital. He probably wasn’t there when it started, but he was there — in the back — before it ended. As I got older, he taught me how to drive a stick shift, properly pour a beer (with very little foam), and he gave me the same curfew he had as an older teen: home before the sunrises and he goes to work. He was the coolest.
An English teacher by trade, my father passed on his love of words, puns, and storytelling to me. He introduced me to To Kill a Mockingbird at age 12 and had me grading high school English papers by age 14, where my wicked ‘red pen’ was born. Little did he know that he was preparing me for my career as a writer and editor.
But everything I got from him isn’t great. I (lovingly) blame Tom Dewey for my flat chest, fair skin, and freckles. I also blame him for my stubbornness (although, to be fair, that trait comes from both my parents so I was doomed), default sarcasm, lame dance skills (he claimed to be the secret fifth member of the Four Tops, but his dance moves prove otherwise), and my inability to remain idle or ride a bike.
As an adult, I see him differently than I did as a kid. He’s not without faults. He’s human. He’s fallible — but his heart is always in the right place when it comes to family and friends.
At 79, Tom Dewey is a more curmudgeonly than jovial and his well-oiled pistons have lost much of their strength. He’s a little slower and grayer these days, and we don’t always agree (he’s an equal opportunity offender), but he’s still my same dad — always with a story and beer to share.
So here’s to you, Dad. Happy Birthday!
P.S. Maybe I’ll repurpose this for your eulogy 😉
-LJDT
