I owe all of the fathers out there an apology. Somehow Father’s Day got past me. Yes, I write these columns well in advance of their publication, but I usually am pretty good at noting special occasions. When I realized I failed torecognize it, I felt bad. My dadhas been gone for a long time, but he’s not forgotten. I think about Jack Fitzgerald nearly every day.
The other day I was sitting at my desk when out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw my dad. It was my husband. If you knew both of them, you would know how truly bizarre this is. My dad was a 6-foot-3-inch Irishman who later in life had only one ear. My husband is 5 feet 9 inches and is of average build with two ears. What struck me was that my husband now dresses like my dad used to, including the pulled-up white socks and topsiders.
My dad embarrassed me with his style: plaids and stripes (as long as they were in the same color family) could be worn together. Shorts were preferred over long pants except when going to Mass, and clothes were not replaced until they were worn out—literally, with holes. I am happy to report that my husband does not mix plaids and stripes, and that’s all I will say about his style. Our daughter is often embarrassed by his choices, but I no longer think they are all that odd.
My dad never met anything he couldn’t fix with duct tape or a piece of used chewing gum. I remember seeing a repairman in our house only once or twice because dad could always fix it … but not really. It was jerry-rigged to hold on for another day or week. My husband also has never met anything he can’t fix. Now, fortunately for me, Carey actually knows what he is doing, so I don’t have the same fear of light switches that I used to.
My dad drove a car like it was some sort of pinball arcade game. When he taught me to drive, he told me to never, ever hit the brakes on the highway. He believed people should merge, shift lanes or anything else to avoid tapping the brakes. If you tapped the brakes, you could cause an accident, he warned. No accidents would happen, though, if you zigged and zagged across the highway, cutting off people left and right as they honked and flipped you off. When Carey and I take long trips, I often sit in the back seat because he apparently attended the same driving school as my father. His friend Jeff always says, “The shortest distance between two points is Carey Hannum driving.” If only there were brakes on the passenger side of the car.
Bottom line, I married my dad. But here is the thing: That’s OK, because I adored my dad. He was the one who made me believe I was incredibly smart and could do anything I wanted and who showed me the value of hard work and treating people fairly. And I am delighted that my own daughter has a father who is doing the same thing for her. Daughters need their dads. So, sorry I am late, dad. But I know you know that I was thinking about you on June 17. Happy belated Father’s Day to all you dads!