I find myself getting somewhat saddened by the upcoming holiday on Sunday.  I’ve always thought Father’s Day was something I celebrated with my dad, not necessarily something my son’s share with me.  I know that sounds weird, but for this holiday, it has always been more important for me to be the “son”, not the dad.  Perhaps because I had forty-five years of wishing my dad Happy Father’s Day, while only celebrating twenty-three with at least one of my boys.

I haven’t found the magic bullet to help me in these feelings, and honestly I’m not sure I want to avoid them.  I know my boys got me some neat stuff, they are both very excited for me to open up my presents on Sunday…  My younger son Max is actually having a little too much fun having me “shake the box and guess!” and hiding my present somewhere in the house as he and his mom have an art show in Bloomington tomorrow and will be out all day. He knows I will search, however I know he has places where he hides stuff that I just can’t even imagine.

But how I wish I had another year to celebrate this holiday with my dad.  How I dream that I had another month to spend with him, another day to make him laugh, another hour to listen to his jokes and stories, another minute to tell him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me.

On occasion I find myself talking to him, asking him what he thinks of what I’m doing and how I’m changing.  Thanking him for making me the man I am today, all the good with all the bad.  Giving me perhaps the greatest gift, the gift of laughter, which I try to share with people every day (whether they like it or not).

Dad (and of course my mom) gave me the knowledge that I could be whatever I want to be given hard work and determination.  And most importantly, giving me the joys of my children.  Without my dad, there wouldn’t be a “me”, and the world wouldn’t have the blessings and benefits of my two boys… life changers in their own right.

So I stare at the pictures I have of my dad.  I see the caricature of my dad my lovely bride drew for his 60th birthday (now nearly twenty years old) that hangs on the wall.  I look at the photos of my dad playing Lazar Wolf in a professional production of Fiddler on the Roof (now nearly thirty-years old).  And of course, I smile at the wedding photos of my mom and dad that hang in my office, reminding me of my own genesis… dad in his tux, mom in her wedding dress (with a twenty-four inch waist).

I remember the presents my brother Barry and I used to give my dad when we were young… often a carton of cigarettes (back off, it was a different time then, and it’s what he said he wanted). I remember the last couple years when both my family and my brothers’ would visit my dad in the nursing home in Cincinnati, buying burgers from the Red Robin down the street from where he lived (dad liked the Bacon Cheeseburger, loaded, and onion straws) and just laughing about old times.  He loved those times, and his grand-kids always made him laugh.

And perhaps after a combined ninety-three Father’s Days my brother and I celebrated with my dad, that was our most precious gift back to him… showing him his true legacy and giving him yet another reason to smile.