In Honor of My Dad on His Birthday

The matted-black wood burning stove was perched on a red brick landing in the corner of the family room. LIke the moon, which provides a much-needed break for the sun, the wood burner was loaded up each fall and winter to give the furnace (and my parent's pocketbook) some relief. I used to sit on the bricks, warmed by the whispering stove, after playing for hours in the snow. The ledge was too narrow to face the stove without having to stand, so I would often leave my post with a dry bum and a damp belly.

One winter we had a terrible ice storm. The entire neighborhood looked like it had been covered with powered sugar icing. Icicles hung from every edge in the neighborhood. The world was suddenly transformed into a roofless cave. Trees, bushes, and eave troughs suddenly became fragile as slender stemed champagne flutes. At midmorning you could stand in the front yard and feel like you were embedded in a kaleidoscope. Everything around you sparkled and danced in the still chilled air. We lost power for four days. The family room became our single room cabin. We were able to stay warm and cooked meals on the flat top of the wood burner. I was elated when I saw the green and red pots heating up dinner. It was like "roughing it" without the hassle.

When the stove hibernated in the summer, we would engage in an ongoing battle with the neighborhood birds. They would search the vent for a portion of the chicken wire that had been battered by the previous winter and barrel down into the stove. My mom was petrified of birds in homes. It didn't matter if they were caged lovebirds cooing, or a wild sparrow with an explorer's spirit wandering into the dark belly of the stove. My mom would not settle with a bird in the room. Every time a bird found its way into our house, she would start by screaming then lock herself away until she could get someone on the phone to come over and "catch and release" the poor lost soul. Whether a neighbor with a pillowcase or my dad with the net he eventually bought, the bird was eventually put back on the right path and order was restored to our home.

It's amazing how seemingly insignificant details reveal powerful truths when you look carefully enough see beyond the obvious. While growing up, my dad used to drive all over town to collect shipping pallets from various businesses. He eventually found one place that would save them for him. He would bring those wood frames home and break them down in the basement. Dad would make sure to remove all nails and staples from the flimsy pine before stacking it. Those pallets would be burned throughout the winter to help keep my bum warm and the heating bill down. As a child, it deeply appreciated the former, but I had no idea of the significance of the latter. My dad was sacrificing his time, energy, and, to some degree, his pride to make sure his family had the basics--including a safe place to rest after a long day of playing in the winter wonderland.

Setting aside the stereotypical criteria of what it means to be a man, I believe the true test of an honorable man is the lengths he will go to care for others. You can know the names of every ball player on your local sports teams, be able to drink yourself into a stupor without blowing chunks, or have so much pride that you would beat down another person without a moment's hesitation, but these weaknesses are shadowed by the man who understands his essential responsibility to others. My dad is the quintessential man. Not because he is a super fan of the Spartans or his Detroit teams, but because he has always, always taken care of his family.

Photo via splorp