Everyone needs a hero....

As I listen for my son to awaken from his nap, I am contemplating what it means to be a good father to him. I have to look no further than my own father to know what it means to be a good father, a good mate, a good man.

I am continuously struck by what a remarkable man he is.

At 81, Gordon still pole vaults. He throws a mean discus and javelin, and has been perfecting his high jump form for upwards of 63 years.

He believes in doing things himself.

We have to BEG him to stay off the roof during leaf season. (The back side of the house has a 40 foot drop. We have only been moderately successful in that endeavor. I threatened to steal his ladder if I found out he was on the roof again. Last year he sent my 53 year old brother up in his stead.)

My childhood memories are dotted with him under one of the numerous Seifert cars with an instruction book, a series of wrenches, and the occasional grunt and a smattering of PG-rated swearing.

(I remember once getting in trouble in 4th grade for saying "Dammit to Hell." While the authority figures at Our Lady of Sorrows were deeply disapproving, my more in-the-know peers mocked me for such low grade cursing.)

Dad has replaced, repaired, and reconstructed countless household appliances. Dishwashers, clothes washers, fans, blenders. All have had their guts spread across the nearest floor. Nearby would be Dad and an instruction manual. Often my role was to hold the flashlight.

Dad also believes in sacrifice.

When he met my mom, he was in the Army. The family lore is that with his success in multiple sports, coaching was an obvious career path. Loyola Ignatius Mulvaney, Mom's dad, told Dad he needed to get a real job. So Dad headed out to US Steel where he worked until retirement.

On the side he continued to coach - basketball, baseball, football, and his great love, track and field. He coached his children, his neighbors, the grammar school, the local high school and even a local college. (I always found it interesting that Alabama's flagship Baptist college relied on a Yankee Catholic to teach their athletes how to pole vault.)

Dad put all seven of us through 12 years of private education on his salary at US Steel. He and Mom understood how to stretch, to save, and to live within their means. Growing up, none of us even understood what a "new car" smell was. None of us felt the lesser for it.

As a result, through repetition and emulation, his children learned the secrets of frugality. All of my sisters still break out into a cold sweat when a particularly sweet bargain presents itself.

During our attempts to spoil our parents in their golden years, I still sense a bit of reticence on Dad's part. In his mind, there is simply no need to spend that kind of money, it's simply an extravagance -- which in his personal dictionary is a synonym for wastefulness.

I am happy to report that the joys of a Starbucks Vanilla Latte has proven that even the most frugal are susceptible to a little bit of luxury in a coffee cup...

Dad believes in generosity.

Any of us could bring home the random stray friend for dinner and Dad never said a negative word about having to feed another mouth. In thinking about this, I remember him always being the last at the table to get his portion of the meal. That way if there was not enough, he would be the one going short.

Although stretching dollars, Dad always gave at the collection during church. He and Mom collected for the Heart Association for decades. (Strangely prescient on their part given Mom's heart troubles late in life...). I remember growing up thinking how fortunate we were because Dad and Mom always had us doing things with and for folks that were less fortunate than we were. After the children finally left the nest, this portion of their lives really kicked into high gear. For years, they volunteered at a local woman's shelter. One year, they left their home to work on a "Habitat for Humanity" type of gig in Ohio. Over 25 years, they adopted various elderly people living on their own, bringing them food, taking them to church, playing bridge with them, and surreptitiously cleaning their homes and checking on their medical and mental health.

There is so much more that I can say...and probably will in later posts. But this has gone on a bit longer than I expected. So today, mostly I just want to thank him. In the last few years, Dad's mettle has been tested. He's taking care of my Mom who is suffering from Alzheimer's. When praised for his care-taking, he will protest loudly that he took a vow for better or for worse and in sickness and in health, and that he's just living up to that vow. He has also said that she would do the same for him. All of this is true.

But watching him with her day in and day out, through the insidious turns of this slow degradation, makes me love him more than I ever have in my life. He treats her with such respect and tenderness during episodes no one should ever have to witness. He is an absolute rock and yet still has a sense of humor and perspective.

As Dad constantly says, getting old is not for the weak.

After more than a half of century together, he's in love with her as much as when they were a young second lieutenant and a classically trained pianist, dancing to Glenn Miller.

Dad, sorry for embarrassing you this way, but I wanted Jack to know when he's all grown up just how deeply I respect, admire and love you. He will read this one day and will know how deeply important you are and how proud I am to call you Dad.

Mark