Father's Day 2010

It's a little after 9 a.m. and once again on a Sunday morning I've enjoyed some peace and quiet, a couple hours with the newspaper and an opportunity to collect my thoughts.

On a day like this, I'm aware of my dual roles as both son and father. And today I'm both inspired by and thankful for two columnists' takes on their fathers, one in the twilight of his life, the other recently deceased. I'd quote from them here, but this post would quickly become too long, so let me just recommend you spend some time with Elizabeth Hovde's "Like his daughter, Dad believes in living out loud" and Nicholas Kristof's "Remarkable man most notable for his gifts as a father"

As for my situation... As the middle child and only son of Catarino Rede and Theresa Flores, I came of age in the '50s and '60s at a time when most Americans turned on their black-and-white television sets and saw fatherhood reflected back to them in characters like Ozzie Nelson and Ward Cleaver. They seemed to be patient and all-knowing, good-humored and fond of cardigan sweaters.

Of course, they represented a Hollywood ideal. Reality was pretty different. In our world, my dad left for work at the local pipe foundry mill before I even awoke, toting a black metal lunch box with burritos or taquitos, and came home in the early afternoon to sleep while we were still at school.

He took me to Candlestick Park to see the Giants (oh, how I miss those Sunday doubleheaders), on a fishing trip in San Francisco Bay where I caught a small tiger shark and drove us down to Southern California in the heat of summer so we could enjoy every kid's dream -- a day at Disneyland. He volunteered to help coach my Little League baseball team, went along on Cub Scout field trips and encouraged me to get what he didn't have -- a college education. My dad was one of nine kids (seven boys, two girls) and grew up in rural New Mexico, making it as far as eighth grade before dropping out to work. He served in the Navy during WWII and was a proud union member.

I wouldn't say we grew up poor, but we certainly were working-class, accustomed to simple tastes and modest aspirations in all aspects of life. One of my fondest memories remains that of going to a weekend flea market with my dad and coming back with a baseball bat that had black electrical tape on the handle and a nail wedged somewhere on the big barrel. We paid 50 cents for it.

My parents divorced when I was 15. While I would have appreciated having him in the house as I navigated the teen years, I appreciate that he laid a great foundation for me, instilling the values of personal and financial responsibility (for self and family) and independence (encouraging me to not be bound by geography) and modeling a live-and-let-live philosophy.

Today, he lives in Silver City with his second wife, enjoying a well deserved and easygoing retirement in his native New Mexico. I plan to call him after writing this post, but I won't be surprised if he calls me first -- as he often does. When I speak to him, I will bear in mind the closing words from Nick Kristof's column:

"Speak and hug from your heart and soul -- while there is still time."

Today, Simone and Nathan will come over for brunch and I will tell them, as my dad always tells me, that I love them dearly and am thankful for having them nearby. I expect I will speak to Jordan as well. And I will tell him, over the many miles to Texas, the same thing.

Being a father is a humbling thing. I've been fortunate, so fortunate, to have had a loving wife and lifelong partner who has helped me the best dad I can be. I'm well aware of my imperfections and shortcomings in that area but I hope, on balance, that each of my kids can look back someday and recount their own favorite experience. It may not involve a 50-cent purchase at a flea market, but I hope it will be as meaningful and as memorable as that simple act of giving.