DAD BRIDGE WALK (A Poorly Titled Post for Father’s Day)

It is Father’s Day this weekend.  And I am lucky enough to have a wonderful father.

For anyone who’s going, “WAIT, WHAT IS HAPPENING, I CAME HERE TO READ A QUICK AND SNAPPY THING ABOUT FATHERS, PREFERABLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND POSSIBLY IN A LIST FORMAT,” do not read this.  It is too long.   It is not a long essay, but it is not a Buzz feed list of Crazy Things All Fathers Do!

This is an essay about my dad that I wrote in early 2007, pre-baby, pre-husband.  I wrote it back when I was waitressing in downtown Manhattan and would sometimes call my father on days I wasn’t working and meet him for lunch near his office in Brooklyn.   I revisited it because obviously you think a lot more about your parents once you are a parent yourself.

This essay never really had a title because I could never really think of anything short and interesting to call it.  It is saved in my documents as DAD BRIDGE WALK.

dad and ben

*               *               *

“DAD BRIDGE WALK” (2007)

 

I ask my father if he’d like to meet for lunch and he asks if I am “attached to lunch.”

“Thursdays I try to walk,” he says. “Over the Manhattan Bridge and then back over the Brooklyn Bridge.  It takes me about an hour and twenty minutes.” He says this very factually—straightforward. This is what I am doing.
“But I would loooove,” he says, “to have you with me. I can think of nothing that would make me happier.”

 

My father says “loooove” with the same fluctuating voice Steve Martin used when saying he was a “Wiiild and Craaazy guy.” He would loooove to have me join him. We will have a wiiiild and craaaazy time.  And he will buy me lunch, he tells me, when we’ve finished walking.

”You don’t need to buy me lunch,” I tell him.

 

“I don’t need to,” he says softly.  “But if you were the father and I were the daughter, you’d do it for me, right?”

 

He says this a lot, this “if you were the father and I were the daughter” phrase, as if he is anticipating a magical switch of some sort that I have not anticipated.  And he grins and I say “right!” like I always do when he says this, anxious that the day may come when we switch places and I will not be able to measure up.

 

 

*          *          *

I realize as we begin our trek that the temperature of the wind (while walking over a bridge in the middle of winter) is somewhere between the Siberian Tundra and my ex-landlord’s heart.  It is painful and I have forgotten to bring gloves.

 

My father is walking ahead of me in his khaki coat that does not seem particularly warm, but must have a lining of some sort that I cannot see. He has a grey wool scarf and black gloves and looks very tidy and thoughtful, looking out over the water. He does this every Thursday. The wind is always stronger over the water and his short brown and grey hairs are blowing to the side, at right angles to where they usually fall.

“Take my gloves,” he says, talking loudly so we can hear each other over the N train, which (like us) is venturing slowly over the bridge in the freezing cold.  “I saw you doing that thing with your sweater,” he says, “and I could tell your hands were cold. They’re good gloves.  Use them.”
And I want to not take them, because his hands will be cold. Because he was smart enough to remember to bring gloves and it isn’t fair that I should get to wear them, but my hands are too cold to turn him away.”

“Thank you,” I say, putting them on.

“That’s what fathers are for,” he says. “I brought a hat, if you want one.”

“I’m wearing a hat,” I point out. My father looks at my head and nods.

“You are,” he says—an updated observance. “If you want another hat, I brought one.” He gestures to his pocket, where the black hat protrudes like a woolen tongue.

“I think I’ll be ok with just one hat,” I tell him.
The wind blows against us until the side of my face is numb and my father moves to try and block the majority of the wind. He used to be much bigger than I was but the gap has narrowed– he has only three inches on me– I am 5’9″ and he is six feet. He explains that one side of our face will become numb going over the Manhattan Bridge and the other side will become numb walking back over the Brooklyn. He says this like it is an exciting science experiment that I can look forward to and then proceeds to talk at length about early Manhattan and the Dutch and the Irish and how the city worked its way up the island, with a short interlude about the young Theodore Roosevelt and his house on Twentieth Street.

“How are your finances?” he asks, once we are safely over the Manhattan bridge and are no longer competing with the N train’s cries. “Was January as bad as you thought?”

“It was,” I say. “Restaurants are slow in January in general, but I have enough of a cushion to fall back on. There were some books I wanted and I’ll probably let myself buy them.”

My father reaches for his wallet and I get upset. A parent giving me money is always slightly upsetting because they will sometimes preface it with, “Do you need money?”
And I always want money (it is so hard not to want it), but I don’t want money from them. I want money to materialize from another entity– for Diana Ross or Steven Speilberg or the widow of some long-dead oil baron to knock on the door to my apartment, handing me a hundred thousand dollars and walking away without a word. I want the government to mail me a check for forty grand with a note saying, “This a not a mistake. We know January is a slow month for Restaurants and you’ve earned this. Keep up the good work. Love, the government.” I want to wake up with a pile of $20’s under my pillow and hope it was the tooth fairy, deciding I needed to be further compensated for the fine quality of my incisors.  But my father shook his head.

“I’ve had this in my wallet since December,” he said. He handed me a $50 gift card to a bookstore. “I got two for Christmas and I spent some of the other one. I haven’t had anything so pressing that I needed to spend this one yet, so what better way to spend it than by giving it to you?”

I patiently hold the gift card in my gloved hands as if he might decide to take it back. I am incredulous that he was given $100 in bookstore gift cards and did not spend all one hundred dollars immediately, as I would have done. But there is nothing my father needs, as evidenced by the fact that he gave away his 60th birthday Ipod (“It wasn’t really my thing,” he said. “Your sister will get a lot more use out of it.”) and nearly wet himself over receiving pistachios and Biscotti for Christmas. (“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve all this!” he cried happily).

We begin our walk back over the Brooklyn Bridge and I give him his gloves back.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“My hands are fine,” I tell him. “You use them.”

“Are you sure you don’t want the second hat?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tell him. “Positive.”

We start our walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, back to his office, talking about something I don’t remember. He has agreed to take me to Garden of Eden, the grocery store near his office where he has insisted he will buy my lunch.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

“I really want an orange,” I tell him. “And a sandwich.”

“If you want ten oranges and ten sandwiches that’s ok too,” he says.

I tell him it’s ok, that I do not really need ten oranges. That I can’t imagine anyone needing ten oranges for anything other than juggling– a sport at which I am painfully inept. When I am there I ask him if I can get a pomegranate on a whim and he tells me (of course) that I can have ten pomegranates.

And I do not need ten pomegranates, so I decline the generous offer. I take my orange and my pomegranate and my sandwich and thank him very much as he walks to his office and I get on the train.
I don’t like to take his money, but I appreciate his gloves and my sandwich and the intensely sticky orange that will remain on my hands for the next half hour. I appreciate the offer of his hat. I try to imagine someone for whom I would do all these things, unprompted, but it is much easier to be chivalrous in my mind when I am sitting selfishly on the subway with a sandwich that I did not pay for.
I would like, someday, to be at the point in my life where the most fulfilling thing I could do with a $50 gift card would be to give it to someone else.
I am not there yet. I am not sure I am even close.

My father has only three inches on me, but he seems much bigger. I am surprised, actually, that he doesn’t block out more of the wind when he tries to shield me from it.

 

*          *          *

If you enjoyed the post, follow the blog or like The Ugly Volvo on Facebook.  Thank you!

If you are my dad and you are reading this, Happy Father’s Day!  I love you and congratulations on being able to use the internet well enough to find this post!  (It’s fine, I know mom probably helped)

If you are looking for a wonderful Father’s Day gift for a father or father-type person, check out Jason Good’s book, “This is Ridiculous, This is Amazing: Parenthood in 71 Lists.”  My current favorite parenting-related quote from it is:

All you really need to know is this: When your co-parent says, “Come help me,” what she or he really means is, “Please join me in suffering through this situation neither of us can control.”  

You can buy the book by clicking the link below or you can not buy it by not clicking the link below OR you can not buy it by clicking the link below and then going, “No, maybe I’ll get him something from TJ Maxx– he needs work shirts.”  Or you can buy it by going into a store and just buying it.  Or by going into a store, asking if they have WiFi, logging back into this post and then buying it by using the link, which seems like a lot of trouble, but hey, it’s your life.  There are lots of ways to buy or not buy this book so at this point the decision is in your hands.   But it’s funny and touching and probably like the cost of two lattes.*

This is Ridiculous, This is Amazing:  Parenting in 71 Lists

this is amazing

*I don’t want to imply that lattes are not touching or very funny.  It probably depends a lot on your barista.

33 Comments

  1. Really lovely. Reminds me of my dad in some ways – in his generosity, lack of need for material things, and ability to listen.

  2. You are so lucky to have such a nice relationship with your father.
    Leslie

  3. Lovely, just lovely. Thank you. I also love the photo – are those tiny sport socks on your baby’s hands? We used socks thusly too – they had trains on them of course….

  4. What a wonderful story. And what a wonderful dad you have. I’m a dad and I always assume that I’m not living up to expectations. I hope I’m even a little like your dad.

  5. Love this :). I wish it were as easy with my dad.

  6. F this post. You just made me cry. So that’s what it’s like to have a father. Never had one and I feel cheated. Bah. But glad to have read this. A glimpse to what I will never know. Thank you.

  7. Avatar

    Mary Bokoske

    Beautiful. I saw much of my dad in your post and now that I am a mom, I appreciate him and his sacrifices so much more. Thank you for sharing.

  8. My relationship with my father will never be like this and I will admit to being maybe a little jealous. I only started actually started getting to know him when my mother got sick and I was already twenty five and was sure I didn’t need a father. I think we always need our parents in some way though. I started this thinking I had a point to make but it turns out I don’t. I do however, think your relationship with your father is rather heartwarming and that he seems, through many of the things I’ve read and heard you say, very kind and fun and thoughtful. So Happy Father’s Day to him and also to Jonathan.

  9. What a beautiful, touching remembrance. Thank you for sharing it….

  10. I cried, like, hard, while reading this, because my father is the opposite of all this. I’m sad that I only get one life to live and that in it, I’ll never have an awesome dad. You are a very, very lucky woman. xoxo

  11. What a lovely story! Thank you for sharing it! And I keep going back, over and over, to look at the beautiful photo, so heart-warming, the most beautiful granddad-and-baby photo I’ve ever seen.

  12. Lovely post. I miss my Dad more than ever these days, but know he is with me. I’d love to be able to walk with him again.

  13. This made me cry because this is what a father should be like and this is how he should act towards his kids… not like mine.

    *sigh*

    *sniffle*

  14. This also made me cry. Not because my father is nothing like this (he is, in his own way) but because it’s just beautiful.

    Also, I’m pregnant and many things make me cry these days.

  15. Wow! Moist eyes!! Thank you.

  16. What a lovely article – even with out the list form and the sublime paper cut-outs (of which I am a big fan) – of course you already know this but you are very lucky to have a dad like yours.

  17. this is great. reminds me of my dad.

  18. Love this. Happy Father’s Day to your dad and thank you for the validation it’s okay to keep posts from years ago.

  19. Beautiful TUV. An excellent remberance for Father’s Day. Thank you for sharing.

  20. A beautiful story, beautifully told. Thank you for sharing!

  21. Such a sweet essay and such a sweet father!

  22. Your Father must be proud to have such a special daughter. What a wonderful relationship you have with your Dad. I lost mine 5 years ago and miss him every day. My Dad was a lot like yours, but hid it from almost everybody. You had to know how to bring it out in him. I will always be my Daddy’s girl. I feel so bad for some of the other commenters who missed out on that bond.

  23. Every time I read something of yours, I want to quit writing forever. You’re just that good. Even if your juggling is sub-par.

    • Thanks! I feel the same way when I read something I really love so I’m both flattered to be on your list and happy other people react the same way I do when I read something I really love. (Reading anything by Annie Dillard makes me want to bash my head against a wall and go, “WHAT IS THE POINT? WHY AM I DOING THIS??’)

  24. Oh I love this. It reminds me so much of my own dad, he would give me just about anything. Really he would give me anything he had to give. We are lucky.

  25. I just cried a little and heaved a very heavy sigh, in a that-was-an-extremely-satisfying-read-except-some-word-that’s-much-better-than-satisfying way, a way I haven’t sighed in a very long time and for which I am very grateful to you. I haven’t spoken to my dad in a number of years, and for a moment there I thought maybe I would call him – but I think he is still the same dad and so maybe, if you don’t mind, instead I’ll just imagine that he and I will be walking on a cold bridge one day and he will say something warm. I loved this, so thank you.

  26. Avatar

    Christine

    I just wanted to tell you that this was perfect. I think that growing up, if we’re lucky, our dads are kind of like superheroes – larger than life. Mine passed away 3 months ago, and I was that lucky. It sounds like you were too. Do an Internet stranger a favour and call him, ok? I wish I had called my dad more.

  27. You are so lucky. My father was a charming, urbane, thoughtful man to the rest of the world and a brutal, sadistic, drunken monster to his children when no one was watching, which was quite often because our mother died when we were little. When I was about ten, he found a new family who lived about half an hour away and spent most of his evenings and all of his weekends with them. This arrangement was just fine with me. It never occurred to me to feel neglected, only glad that I wouldn’t get savaged since he wasn’t there to do it.

    When I moved away and stopped communicating with him {what an incredible, liberating relief} he told everyone that I was mentally ill and he had lost track of me when I had bottomed out on drugs and become homeless.

  28. Wonderful. And I love your temperature measurement scale (landlord’s heart!!).

  29. […] great, GREAT post written by The Ugly Volvo about her father made me sniffle, mostly because that’s how I think a father should be and act, and it’s […]

  30. This is so beautiful. My dad passed away when I was 27 and he never got to meet my child. He was only 55 when he died. He also would have bought me 10 oranges had I wanted them.

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