My Dad’s Bithday

July 21, 2025 Journal No Comments

Today is July 21. 2025. If Dad were still alive, he would be 102 years old today.

I had to think and think and think to pick out one adventure I had with Dad that might have turned out to be a milestone event, or at least exciting enough to keep me awake while writing about it.

Let’s face it, he was my dad. There were a lot of times just he and I were together, but I would have to exaggerate to the point of untruthfulness to make all those occasions adventures.

Then again sometimes things happen, and in a very subtle way your world changes, and you begin to think of life differently.

My Hero
From the moment I was aware that I was alive my father was my role model. Whatever he did, I wanted to be like him when I grew up. Sometimes, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I would act like I thought he acted and reacted to things happening around him.

I was a very poor actor, of course. At 5 or 6 years old, how could I exude confidence when I had none?How could I show him my muscle, when it wasn’t there?

By the age of thirteen or fourteen, I had given up. Being like Dad had become a thing of the past. I had succumbed to the same hormonal quagmire of all other thirteen or fourteen year olds. Many of the things that once mattered did not matter any more. And many things that don’t matter at all suddenly carried more weight than any adult could possibly comprehend.

I cannot say I had many meaningful conversations with my dad. But I can say that my father was always part of my life. All my brothers will tell you the same thing. Growing up we took it for granted. But now, having grown up and seen how there are quite a few people whose fathers were not a big part of their lives, it makes me appreciate him AND Mom for always being there for us kids.

A Native Sloop, approximate condition at purchase.

The Boat
Dad was the ultimate DIY guy. His unspoken code was, “Don’t buy it if you can do it yourself.”
I knew nobody else whose father popped his own popcorn, built his own furniture, preserved his own jams (My mother and father worked together on that one), repaired his own cars, made his own pickles, and built his own boat – just to name a few.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my dad was a Naval officer stationed at Roosevelt Roads Naval Air Base near Ceiba, Puerto Rico. That was quite a place back then. We all did a lot of things there, Dad and Mom included. But the thing I have been leading up to was the boat. My dad built a boat.

He found an old native sloop with a big, wide hull and bought it. He had it brought to the marina at Roosy Roads, and that is where he and we (his sons) would work on it. After pulling the boat out of the water, with help from some of us, Dad knocked down all the rotting wood. The keel and hull were just about all that was left that was in any shape to keep the boat together. And that is where we started building up.

Over the course of many months my father would spend most weekends working on the boat. Sometimes he brought three or four of his sons to work with him. Sometimes he brought only one of his sons. He would pack up his tools and one or more of his sons in an old Morris Minor automobile that he used for going to work and getting around.

One Sunday, the only one of us that was available was me. So my dad brought me down to the marina to help him build the boat. Usually when I helped my father on a project, my job was to stand around and hand him tools. Often I would help him carry things, or measure things, or hold things in place while he hammered or drilled or used whatever tool he needed to get the job done.

This Sunday was no different. Although the boat was getting close to being finished, still I have no other recollection of what we achieved that day, because for me working on the boat that day was no more exciting than any other day I worked with Dad. All that is planted in my memory is that the hours under the sun went slowly. However, this time it was well before 4:00 pm when my dad decided we had reached his goal for the day. And I remember feeling very happy, without showing it, that we were going home earlier than usual.

A Subtle Triumph
Although eager to go home, I still traipsed through wrapping up the boat and getting all the tools in the Morris-Minor.

But then, just after my dad told me where to set one tool or other in the back of the car, in the very same tone of voice he said, “Get in the driver’s seat. I’ll take shotgun.”

Obedient as ever, I got in the driver’s seat. I may not have shown it – or maybe I did – but inside, my self-esteem was going through the roof – which, in an old Morris Minor, could be a problem.

Now Dad was well-aware that I was thirteen or fourteen years old, and he was well aware that the legal driving age was sixteen, and neither of these facts bothered him one bit. He smiled as he sat in the passenger seat. Not a wall to wall grin, but a firm but calm smile, like this was the moment he had been waiting for.

Before ignition, Dad calmly instructed me to adjust the rear view mirror and the outside of the window mirror if I needed to. Then he took about five minutes explaining how the different parts worked – the brakes, the clutch, the gas. Then he had me practice changing gears mostly so I could learn where the gears were.

The ignition key worked that day. We did not have to push the car, as we usually did, or start it with a crank. The car shook violently one second and stalled when I released the clutch too fast. Dad did not flinch one bit. “Start it up again. This time less gas and slowly let up on the clutch”

My second or third try, the car lurched forward, I hit the brakes, and we came to a stand-still, but the engine was still running. Dad kept his gaze straight ahead, and so did I. He said, “This time ease out the clutch and ease in on the gas at the same time, and point the car up toward the road.”

Lo and behold the car moved and kept moving over the gravel lot. My mind was racing like Peter Pan’s, “I’m driving!” We traveled all of 50 yards in first gear on the gravel lot, when Dad said, “Ease off the gas now while you press the clutch and gently press down on the brake.”

The car came to an abrupt stop, a bit far from the road. But that was okay because from where we were it was easy to see there was no traffic on the main road in either direction. Dad instructed me to move onto the road and turn left. I did it with a few jerks, but the engine didn’t stall so I just kept moving along up the road.

My father was never nervous. He was always very composed like pressure had no effect on him. This time there was no pressure because the risks were so minimal. There was just one road to drive on between the marina and the officers’ quarters. The average speed on that road was about 25 mph, and there was never much traffic to contend with – especially on a Sunday. So Dad could relax and give me instructions, and the only thing he had to worry about was damage to the car.

After rolling along for about forty seconds, Dad matter-of-factly asked me, “Do you remember where second gear is? Press the clutch, switch to second, then ease off the clutch while you ease on the gas.”
I did it. A little jerky, but second gear was a lot easier than first gear. We proceeded along the road, switching to third (That’s a hard one.) and fourth, and then moving on up to officers’ quarters, where our house on a corner was easily accessible. Before we got to the little turn off to the house, Dad had me slow down and stop in the middle of the road.

The Best Part
We stopped in the middle of the road because one of the neighbors, my father’s friend, was outside and he wanted to talk to him. While my dad’s spoke to his friend through the window on the passenger side, some neighborhood kids stood around at the side of the road. One of them nodded at me, and I nodded back.

That was the best part of all. Other kids saw me in the driver’s seat. If I ever talked about driving a car, which I never did, these kids would vouch for me.

As a matter of fact I never did talk about driving the car. Dad had me drive a few more times, and not always to or from the marina, and I never bragged about it. For me it was the moment I crossed over from being a kid to being a man, even in my dad’s eyes. And that was an internal experience no one else would understand, so I never brought it up.

What was it for my dad. I think his tacit way of bonding with his kids was by having us work with him on his projects. I don’t know if he realized how boring and tedious it was for us, but for him I don’t think that was the point. He wanted us to learn basic survival skills for a man, which meant knowing our way around a toolbox, and he wanted us to know how to drive. So he taught us.