The Halloween weekend gave me the first chance since I moved to
Hollister to make the relatively short trek back to my hometown of
Chico.
The infamy surrounding the Halloween celebrations of years past
have become just that
– something of the past. The police have done their job to a T
by encouraging people who usually revel in wreaking havoc on the
small town to go somewhere else; the festivities were somewhat
dismal compared to previous year’s fright fests.
The Halloween weekend gave me the first chance since I moved to Hollister to make the relatively short trek back to my hometown of Chico.
The infamy surrounding the Halloween celebrations of years past have become just that – something of the past. The police have done their job to a T by encouraging people who usually revel in wreaking havoc on the small town to go somewhere else; the festivities were somewhat dismal compared to previous year’s fright fests.
The trip was still a success, because I got to do something more important than just party – I got to spend some much-needed time with my friends and family.
One of the highlights of the trip was being able to celebrate my dad’s birthday with him.
During the four-hour drive back to Hollister, when the only thing to keep me company were my own thoughts, I began thinking about my dad and the importance he’s played in my life.
My dad, Mike, is one of those people whose strengths are often mind-blowing, and you wonder how so much inherent fortitude can be captured in a single living thing.
He basically grew up without a father figure and was raised solely by his mother, who transferred her infinite strength to him.
When I was growing up, I definitely went through my phases, as most adolescents do, that just about drove him to drink, I’m sure.
Instances like when I walked into his office at work with a sheepish look and timidly told him I’d been in a small fender-bender spring to mind.
Translation: I rear-ended a car so badly, the hood of my car looked like a tent. But instead of going ballistic (hence my ingeniously timed confession at his place of business) we sat down and figured out a way to fix it.
Second translation: He paid to get it fixed and I was at his mercy for many moons, which actually worked out pretty well considering the price tag that came attached to the tented hood.
But through the good times and the very, very bad, he constantly supported me in whatever decision I made, whether he agreed with it or not.
When I was 19 and decided I needed to take a break from school and go to Norway with a volunteer organization, although it was expensive and maybe not the most prudent decision I ever made, he knew it was something I needed to do for my own personal reasons.
And when I came home after a month because I felt the organization didn’t hold my personal safety in a high enough regard (that’s a whole ‘nother story), he welcomed me home with open arms – even though he was out of pocket a considerable amount of money.
Instead of constantly berating me with lectures and speeches on what I should do, he showed me through his actions what I could do with the abilities I possessed that were passed on to me through him and my mother.
When I went through a minor bout with credit card debt, he was there to bail me out. That brought a torrential flood of berating along with it, but I kind of expected it when I plopped down a stack of bills about a foot high on the kitchen table.
When I lost someone I loved, he stood next to the coffin and cried with me.
I guess what I’m trying to say is this – the world would be a much better place if more fathers were like mine.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
