Son of a Butch

It's my father's birthday and soon we'll be going to brunch at Cracker Barrel. I can't wait for this family time where I can eat a stack of pancakes with people I love. I love my father, immensely. I cherish the quiet times of fishing, the stress of always having to mow the lawn as a kid, and the lessons on being neurotic with snow removal. From him I learned hard work, trusting the job that feeds the family and that loyalty to friends trumps everything.

I sometimes try to rewind time to place myself in my father's role in the seventies and eighties, trying to see three kids graduate and get the "hell out of" his house. I think about those days as simple and carefree -- not as hectic and stressful as they seem to be now. But then I think that life was just as stressful back then, but my parents did a good job sheltering us from that. The fact that I can say I lived a joyous, simple childhood is evidence of the dedication taken by committed parents.

I think about the days my dad lit cow dung on fire underneath the streetlights of Sherburne, New York, or the times he fished for game trout illegally at a conservation site and I smile. All of us have youth, once, and then all of us have responsibility. I'm very happy to have been taught responsibility by good ol' Butch, and for this I am lucky.

Happy Birthday, Dad!