This morning—after a particularly difficult bout with “it’s time to get out of bed, but my back and legs are not cooperating”—I set about my usual AM routine: plod to the kitchen, get some coffee going, figure out what’s for breakfast, and check the back door to see if the local stray cat is waiting for breakfast. She wasn’t. Obviously frustrated by my erratic schedule over the past few months, she now only shows up once a week or so, apparently having moved on to find a human benefactor who’s home more frequently.
Anyway, back to the important stuff: coffee. I have this coffee mug that was given to me a few years ago by two students who (at the time) started referring to me as their Audio Dad. Given their track record and sense of humor, I knew it was a term of affection and embraced it proudly. Thankfully, they refrained from dubbing me their Audio Grandpa, which would have exponentially increased the aches in my back. At the end of their senior year, they gave me a coffee cup that says “#1 Dad.” I thought it was awesome, especially since I don’t have any children.
Being my clumsy self, I managed to drop the mug, resulting in the handle cracking off. It could have been worse—it might have shattered to pieces. There was no way I was going to toss it into the garbage, so it’s been sitting in a closet and listed on my “things to do when I have time” ledger, along with re-doing the kitchen ceiling and cleaning up the basement. Yup. But this week I somehow managed to glue the handle back on, restoring use of my favorite coffee vessel.
Mix Live Blog: Help Wanted…But Not Found
Coincidentally, this past Sunday was Father’s Day. I find Father’s Day bittersweet. On the one hand, it reminds me of how much I miss my Dad, but it also reminds me that he had a hell of a run and left some pretty impressive tracks in the sand. I doubt I can really appreciate what it takes to do that job. Three of my closest friends have children. One of them has four, and I can barely wrap my head around how he was able to afford it, both financially and emotionally.
I’ve often thought about what it’s like to be a father on the road and have seen glimpses of it while traveling with other people. On a few occasions, I’ve seen someone working a gig light up at the sight of an unexpected visit from their significant other and children, which is awesome. I’m not one to snoop into another person’s privacy, but every now and then I hear one side of a conversation, with comments like, “What’s going on in math class?,” “Who is supervising this party?” and “You can do that after you’ve done your homework.” Or the scariest of all: “We’ll discuss this when I get home.” Yikes. When I was a kid, I knew all too well what that last one really meant. Once in a blue moon, I’ll work a gig and be introduced to a youngster who is shadowing their mom or dad, learning the ropes of live sound.
Having seen what it took for my Dad to raise three of us, I can’t imagine what it takes to be a father while being on the road all the time, or what it takes to be a son or daughter while your parent is on the road. Both sides of that equation come with difficulties, so take a moment and say thank you, even if it’s just a text to some far-off place.
And try to forget some of the mischievous things we did when we were kids.
