On this Father’s Day, I drove my Toyota Tacoma over to the repair shop on 44th Avenue to drop it off so they can start work on it tomorrow morning. It needs the attention. Just yesterday, I discovered the windshield wipers had completely stopped working. To make matters worse, around 12:30 AM last night, a police officer pulled me over because I had a tail light out. I sat there in the dark while he took my license back to his cruiser to run a check.
Meanwhile, I was fumbling with my phone, trying to get into my KeePass app to bring up my digital insurance card. It was taking a little while to get everything opened up. While I was working on it, the officer walked back up to my window and told me that won't be necessary. Apparently, my squeaky-clean record was enough to convince him that I likely had the insurance. I made sure to be polite to him throughout the entire interaction. In my book, being respectful is always the number one rule to keep a situation from escalating with law enforcement. I mentioned to him that the truck was already scheduled for a wiper repair on Monday, thanked him, and went on my way.
After leaving the truck at the shop today, I had a couple-hour walk back home with the dogs. Right around that time, my daughter Amy contacted me via text, wondering what I was up to today. Her message was likely an opening to go grab some dinner, visit the zoo, or set up some other kind of Father's Day plan. But between the late-night police stop, the dancing, and the long walk home, I was completely exhausted. I texted her back and told her straight out that I was tired, that we didn’t need to do anything today, and that I was heading to bed to take a nap. Honestly, sometimes just knowing that someone shows an interest in getting together means every bit as much as actually going out and doing it. On a day like Father’s Day, just knowing you’re on their mind and receiving that text is enough.
I lay down on the upstairs couch and let the quiet of the afternoon take over. In that still moment right before sleep, my mind drifted back to a walk I took just yesterday around West Lake with the dogs. While out, I had paused to snap a photo on my phone of a dad fishing with his young son at the water's edge. Seeing them there immediately brought back the years I used to take my own daughters down to that very same water, helping them bait hooks and watching their faces light up whenever they caught bluegills when they were little.
Lying there today, the fishing memory opened the door to so many others. I remembered the countless miles and paths we took together on the Greenbelt with our dogs over the years. We walked it so often that it eventually became a running family joke about just how much Dad likes to take walks.
I don't say any of this to humble brag, but I am deeply proud of all the time I dedicated to my daughters and our family while they were growing up. We made it a priority to explore together. Once, we packed everything up for a three-week vacation, driving our Chevy van all the way out to Santa Barbara, California, with our bicycles loaded into a rack on the back. For three straight weeks, our routine was simple and perfect: we walked on the beach every single morning looking for sea shells, and then we would circle around to the cinnamon roll shop located on the land side of the wharf.
We also took several vacations up the coast to Monterey, as well as camping trips in the towering woods of Big Sur and the valley of Yosemite. We camped right on the beach at Carpinteria, sometimes roughing it in tents and other times staying in our little travel trailer. Another time, I got them up at 5:00 AM just so we could see the sunrise hit the Grand Tetons. On our travels, we saw a grizzly bear at Yellowstone, as well as moose, buffalo, and elk. We hiked all the way down to Osprey Falls in Yellowstone, and we even swam in the Firehole River. And, of course, we made the trip to visit Disneyland more than once.
My point is that I spent time with my daughters when it meant the most to them, when we were a family and they were growing up inside the circle of our everyday life. Those memories can never be taken from me, and they actually provide me with some contentment in old age. Although I am not done living by any means, memories become more important as you follow the trail toward 80 and beyond. You begin to understand that the real inheritance was never only the big occasions. It was the walks, the bluegills, the dogs, the beach mornings, the bicycles on the van, the cinnamon rolls by the wharf, and a daughter sending a simple text on Father’s Day asking what you are doing.
