Invincible

My dad turned 60 this past week, and I was lucky enough to be there with him, along with family and a few of his good friends. My sisters planned and organized a delightful surprise party for him; we enjoyed Italian chestnuts, roasted over a gas fire, inspired by my sister in Italy and smuggled over the border by my aunt and uncle in Ontario, Canada. We shared "the world's best jerky", sent from my aunt in Alberta, who drove an hour and a half to select and ship it herself. We shared birthday cake and music and stories and laughter, and it was wonderful.

After the party and the rest of the weekend in a remote cabin with our relatives, we spent the entire next week leading up to Christmas at my parents house in rural Pennsylvania. This is the house I grew up in, and it's a joy to come home to the farm. There are reminders of my childhood, like the now empty chicken barn and the dusty old pig stall. There are new additions that have been added in the years since I've left, like the beautiful new kitchen and the adjoining patio, complete with bird feeders and an ivy trellis.

As my wife and I spend time in this home with our own children, I am often reminded of my experiences and lessons here when I was the age my son is now. Simultaneously a father and a son in this house, I think back to the impressions I had of my own father as a child, and see those impressions mirrored in my son. I become aware of expectations that I had of my father and of myself, and am sometimes startled to find those same expectations still in place for myself and my son.

I think that father and son both have impressions and expectations of each other, some good and some flawed. As a father, I expect my son to show respect, to listen and obey quickly, to follow my instruction cheerfully. The obvious truth is that my expectations are not always realistic, nor always fulfilled. I'm sure that my dad had some of those expectations of me as well, and I cringe sometimes remembering my resentment of hard work or instruction. As a child, I saw my father as both invincible and impenetrable, and I'm realizing now that, much like my expectations, neither view is fully accurate. My dad could do anything, from felling trees which stocked the basement with firewood, to building new houses from the ground up, to raising 14,000 chickens from day old chicks to market-ready broilers, successfully and with frequent repetition! My participation in all of those activities was often required, and I usually took part only begrudgingly. At the time, I assumed that my father not only excelled at these activities, but thoroughly enjoyed them.

This afternoon, as I again rode along with my dad into the woods adjacent to our house to retrieve logs for the fireplace, I realized that a lot of life is simply hard work. Hopefully, most of us enjoy many parts of our lives, and can spend much of our time doing things that keep us fulfilled and happy. But sometimes it's just plain work. As I look back at some of those times in the woods, on the roof, or in the chicken barn, I'm struck with the understanding that dad wasn't always doing those things because he enjoyed them, but because that was how he loved and took care of his family.

Thanks, Dad.

Happy Birthday.