Pop

It's hard to sit down and write your thoughts about your dad. I've known him my entire life and I still don't think I've even begun to scratch the surface of the old man. Like a lot of people, I've always regarded Dad in almost mythic proportions. He's not an easy diamond to cut, but his facets are many.

Dad was born in 1943, the oldest of five children, and he played up the older brother card like a shark. Never one to shy away from laughing at his younger brothers while sitting on their chests and slapping their faces, he firmly established himself as the alpha wolf in any room he chose. Headstrong and stubborn, like the rest of the Irish side of my family, he grew up with rock and roll and he and his crew were staples of most every school's high school dances in their teenaged years. It was then that stories of his squaring accounts with the local hoodlums began to take seed, such as the time he chased off some clowns who pulled a knife on his brother and the time he made some ruffians go back and pick up the books they knocked from a girl's arms, at the risk of a thrashing.

And yet, for all of his menace towards bullies, he never dropped the gloves. He didn't need to. Dad possesses two of the most electric blue eyes God ever produced from his workshop and they cut you down like a laser. I kid you not when I say you could feel him looking at you from behind - that glare giving you a donkey kick to the kidneys. As the 1960s rolled on into the 1970s, Dad decided to complete the outlaw look with a Harley Davidson and some intimidating facial hair. Friends would be afraid to come into the house because of the "pit bull," as they called my Dad. He was tough as nails and he and mom ran a very tight ship with us kids, but his laugh could lift you out of your shoes - even if you were down the block.

Dad also has one of the keenest intellects I have ever come across. He has read pretty much every science fiction book ever written and has a near-genius IQ. He was also the first person in town to be the proud owner of a Harley and a Cadillac at the same time. On two wheels or four, Dad was always a sight to be seen when motoring down the road.

Yet, Dad was not a perfect man. How many of us can say we are? He made many mistakes in his life that he regrets. He was the Headmaster of the School of Hard Knocks, and, one evening, we had an argument . It was heated and very, very tense. It was the kind of argument that makes you consider making a radical change in your life and pointing to that moment as the catalyst. We allowed our disagreement to fester overnight.

The next morning, Dad came down before work. I was already in the kitchen, preparing to head out the door to catch the bus to my job in the city when he said to me, "You were right, son. I'm sorry." It was the first time I had ever heard him say he was wrong. It was then that Dad stopped being perfect to me - and I loved him more for that fact. Dad, if you're reading this, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Males, when we reach our late teens, and into our early 20s, try to assert ourselves as adults. Frequently, if not always, that assertion manifests itself into clashes with your dad. I was no different. It's a scene played out in almost every animal species and in most every culture in civilized history. It's the gumption of arrogant inexperience butting heads with stubborn reason. It can turn father and son against each other or it can bring two generations closer in understanding. Fortunately, for me, it was the latter.

Dad and I became friends. We talked as men, we laughed as men, we bonded as men. We went to see the Beavis and Butthead movie together - and I think it was HIS idea. Later that year, we went to a baseball game and a brawl broke out. Dad leaned over to me, and in his best Butthead voice said, "Baseball fights are cool!" I think I laughed for a solid year.

I remember when I was younger I called him "Pop," once. Oh, Dad didn't like that one bit. Since I'm a bit of a smartass, I would say, as I was headed out the door, "see ya, Pop!" knowing full well, I had a head start and was a pretty fast runner. In time, Dad not only grew to accept it - he embraced it. Now, whenever he calls, he says, "Hello, Kevin. It's Pop." After all, my Dad has taught me, it's nice to know I can teach him a thing or two.

Today, Pop is retired, has a brace of grandchildren and, if you pulled a turtleneck on him and plopped him down on a bar stool in a Key West dive, you would think Ernest Hemingway was alive and well. He's mellowed in his years, attends church regularly and would rather give you a hug than a hard time. When his father died in the early 1980s, I realized I had better appreciate my family. Without any hesitation or weirdness at all, every time I talk to Pop, we always say "I love you" to each other whether winding up a phone call or parting ways at the front door. It's a lesson we should all heed: tell someone you love them, even if they already know. Sometimes, it's just good to hear. It ain't bad to say, either.

I am a realist. I know there are things in all of our pasts which haunt us and have hurt other people. We are not perfect human beings. Sometimes, we have to make those mistakes - even the costly ones - to eventually emerge as better people. Perfection isn't a destination; it's a journey we will never complete, no matter how hard we try, but it's a trip made all the more worthwhile with each step you take in its direction. Maybe Pop took a bit longer to make that trip, but at least he's on his way.

He's far from perfect, but he's perfect for me.

Hey, he's my Dad.