A Father's Day toast to The Old Man

     I remember lots of little, ordinary things from a little, ordinary childhood.
     I can recall being small enough to ride on The Old Man's shoulders; an amazing thing, given my current size. I'd put my chin on the top of his head and giggle with the vibration of each step he took. Or maybe it was just that his crewcut tickled.
     Speaking of which, I remember how I would take two combs, hold them scissor-like and pretend to give him a trim. Particularly those oh-so-hip 1970s sideburns. He'd just sit there and be patient, perhaps thankful that unlike stereotypical little girls, I didn't make him sit down to tea parties with my dolls.
     No, I was the kid who preferred her Lone Ranger and Tonto or Six Million Dollar Man and Bionic Woman or Charlie's Angels action figures to Barbie dolls. I was the kid who ripped her knee open barreling full-tilt into a cinderblock retaining wall on her Big Wheel. I was the kid who played in the bar at the Club while The Old Man, Saint Joan and their friends had cocktails every Wednesday night in the summertime after shuffleboard.

No "Daddy's Little Girl" or "Butterfly Kisses" here, thanks.
The Old Man and Daughter No. 2 take a spin to the
Ella Fitzgerald version of "Laura."
It was at this point he looked at me, grinned, and said,
"I never thought we'd get rid of you." Gee, thanks, Dad.

     I have one sibling, my sister Linda. The Old Man took her to see James Bond movies when she was a kid, and continued the father-daughter movie date tradition with me. We had 007, too, but we started out with Star Wars and Indiana Jones. Yes, I'm a geek. He's responsible.
     Then, of, course, there's the basketball thing.
     Linda went to Villanova. Villanova = Big East-y goodness. As far back as I can remember, The Old Man — a hoops guy since high school under the supervision of legendary Berks County coach John Silan (mention his name in our house, and a choir of angels shows up, melodically intoning "C-ohohohohohohoh-ch" as The Old Man gets a reverent glow in his eyes) — would look at me and say, "We're going to root for the Wildcats, right?" I'd agree as enthusiastically as any little girl who thinks her daddy hung the moon could.
     I learned to love the sport. Through the years, The Old Man and I took in a seemingly infinite number of games together, on TV and in person. We've cheered at the Palestra, the Pavilion, the old Spectrum; blowout wins, blowout losses and triple-OT screamers against Syracuse and Georgetown. I'm not sure who thought it was cooler the first time I got to cover a Division I men's game at Madison Square Garden, him or me.
     The Old Man is the one who taught me how to drive, how to mix a good drink, how to prepare for a job interview. And who, together with Saint Joan, taught me how to be a strong human being with a mind of her own who's nobody's sheep.
     Once, while I was having a fight with Mr. Wrong (everybody has one; I'm not immune), he, assailing my perceived femininity and blasting me for being "contrary," spat at me, "God, your father must have really wanted a son." (Because only those possessed of dangly bits may have their own opinions, I guess.)
     You know, I don't think he could have been more wrong.
     The Old Man, I figure, was just ahead of his time. He never insisted that I hate Barbies, eschew tea parties or prefer jeans to taffeta and lace. Basketball? Well, maybe he nudged that one. But, plain and simple, The Old Man is supportive. Hugely supportive, in fact. (Something Mr. Wrong hadn't the first frakking clue about.) He just loves all his girls. Without question. Wherever my interests, my sister's interests, my niece's interests have taken us, The Old Man and Saint Joan — it may be Father's Day, but I can hardly forget my mother's sizable contributions to the strength of our family, now can I? — are often the head cheerleaders, even if they don't always understand where we're going with something. If it's important to us, it's important to them. That's just how it is.
     Respectively, we are a journalist, a nurse and a fledgling architect. The parentals certainly have done something right.
     So on this day that is carved out on the calendar to honor fathers, I'm more than happy to raise a glass to mine (and Mom, too!). Even if it brings to mind the picnic when I, then about 10, confused in which hand I held whose cup and accidentally took a healthy swig of my father's OFC and club soda as opposed to my ginger ale. Took me a long, long time to appreciate whiskey after that.
      Yep, be mindful of your beverage. Just another valuable life lesson gleaned from The Old Man.