ad described himself as a “father emeritus”. This wouldn’t have been funny if it were completely true. In fact, far from absent, Dad was homeof the time. In high school, I described him to my friends as less a dad-type and more a cool guy who lived in my house.
Once, at the age of 14, I was caught by my mum smoking pot in my bedroom. She threw out my paraphernalia, took me around the block weeping, and cautioned me about the great history of addiction in our family. Later that night, or maybe even a few days later, Dad made his debut on the top floor of the house, the kids’ floor. He poked his head around my door and said: “You couldn’t have cracked open a window? You bloody fool.”, and he wasn’t didactic. Although he taught me many things by example.
I shared his dislike for tattoos and plays. Still, twice he saw me in the school play, and even sat in the front row – not remotely trying to hide the blue light and cloud from his vape. The plays that I was in were always avant garde slogs he and I both hated , and I understood and respected his decision to leave at the intermission, I really did. It was important. As if to say… “be faithful to your own taste”, and “you can be supportive without being untrue to yourself”.
Dad didn’t care about what teams we were on or what colleges we went to. He cared that we were engaged, and funny, and had convictions, and were true to them. He loved my drawings and my impressions. I have never seen him more proud of me than the time I beat him in Scrabble with a score of 409.
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