
June 9, 2007
I want to thank Dad for being a good dad, not complicated or
ambiguous or demanding. I thank him for being so solidly good—a good man. He
was simple in some ways, without an agenda or ulterior motives; he was almost
childlike in that way. He valued learning and wonder, and he didn’t seem to
care what people thought. He went crazy over handwriting analysis, astrology,
self-hypnosis, biorhythms, waterbeds—anything to make life better and more
interesting. We kids thought he was kind of a kook; we were embarrassed of him,
like most kids are embarrassed of their parents. It took time and maturity for
us to understand what a treasure he was.
Dad wasn’t rich, and didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t. His
wealth was in experience, in stories, in places he loved and things he’d built.
He never talked much about religion, but my guess is that for him, the
underpinnings of the universe were a tidy garage, a smooth landing in a small
plane, and a sympathy for old radios. He hated television, distrusted politics,
and didn’t quite understand art. But he could fix your water heater, and he’d
drive out to some godforsaken highway in the middle of the night to replace
your power steering hose after it caught on fire again. He’d do whatever it
took to get you back to living, so you could get on with your art or politics
or whatever it was you liked to do, all things being pretty much equal with him
as long as the belts were tight and the lines were bled and the wiring was wrapped
and safe, so he could go home, knowing he’d done it right.
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