That year was a good one for dads. Tuberculosis was cured. The kids were still little. Every young white male had a job. The wives wore torpedo bras and they stayed home and they cooked casseroles.
Some of the dads were funny. They’d make like they were ready to go to work in their suit coats and their cute gray-felt hats--the kind that would go out of style soon--and they’d stand by the door and they’d shout, "Good bye, all! I’m off to the city." But they’d forgotten their pants! And the kids would yell, "Dad! You’re not wearing pants!" And the dads would look down and say, "Ohmigosh, you’re right!"
Laughter all around.
Years passed and the kids got older and progressively they’d gum up the whole deal. They turned angry. They sought therapy. They started beating drums. All they could remember was how their dads were never there. Yes, there were the times he’d taken them for a spin in the powder-blue Triumph with the top down and the setting summer sun was backlighting their gorgeous curly hair on windy Sheridan Road in Lake Forest, Illinois.
Still, it wasn’t enough. All they could remember about their first two decades was how much they wanted their dads. Can I tell you? Whatever he gave them, however gorgeous, however remarkable, however indelible--a snippet of verse, a pitch they could whale, a story at night about Ollie and Pudge--it was never, ever enough.