Binderama60for60

Time to celebrate my Dad on this Father’s Day! All things Pop. Dad. Blood. Sir. We’ll save Jim, Jimbo, Jazzbo and L. James (and “Skull James”) for another time.

Admittedly, this is one of the hardest posts in this 60|60 series to write so far. I’ll start with this: he was a wonderful Dad. He provided for me, imparted wisdom and experience, opened my eyes to new things. He challenged me. He laughed, was quite the raconteur, played the organ and drove sporty cars. He ran a tight ship and he’d say things like, “‘Sorry’ doesn’t feed the admiral’s cat,” both likely inspired by his days on a Navy destroyer. He explained how and why to wear a cup, showed me how to tie a tie, and he tried to have “the talk,” but I covered my ears and hummed “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

On a Sunday back in 2011, I said to him, over the phone, “I love you, Pop. See you tomorrow.” He echoed that sentiment.

Beyond that, telling the story of my relationship with my Dad is tricky. I’ve talked with friends and turned to other resources to understand why this topic is so tough to understand and positively dizzying to express. Terms like “expectations,” “validation” and “rivalry” came up. All of those work both ways. Generational differences were also stark for me and Dad: The Greatest vs. X.

Dad was a writer, journalist, photographer and military historian. He was proudly DIY, an athlete and sometimes sports fan. The enthusiasms he exhibited and shared with me stoked my own interests in some of those areas. I think he hoped I would carry on some of them in my own life. I know he had high expectations for me, as I was the youngest of three boys. I’ll leave my brothers out of this one.

Thanks to Dad, I fancied myself a writer and still do. Same with photography. He built a dark room in our house and taught me how to develop black and white photos taken with one of his many cameras.

I was athletic and a bit of a soccer star at age 10 or 11. The day I scored a hat-trick, I could see how thrilled and proud Dad was of me. It was different from those Saturdays when I sucked. He hosted weekend soccer games in the backyard. He bought new cleats to play kick with me (catch but with feet). When the Family traveled to the Montreal Olympics in 1976, Dad and I attended the opening ceremonies and a number of soccer games. We watched Michigan football and the Redskins together when I was young; when I was older we rehashed their performances on our Sunday calls.

Dad took the Family to explore the battlefields of the Revolutionary and Civil Wars which dotted our area of the Mid-Atlantic. We played lots of chess.

When it came to validation, as I grew older I sought less, so I received less. I was changing, as one does. I wasn’t defiant; maybe just drifting. My interests in sports waned, and Dad expressed his disappointment, clearly. Though he had a serious workshop downstairs — benches, table saws, tools of every size, shape and purpose — I never got the DIY bug. When the Cub Scout’s Pinewood Derby came around, Dad’s sleek creations, grounded with molten lead, brought home some major trophies, which I happily accepted on his behalf.

My writing garnered me some awards and eventually the role of editor-in-chief of my high school paper. Dad was supportive but we clashed on some matters of process and ethics. He was a disciplined writer and editor; I leaned more toward the sensational.

As petty as it might sound, innovation in digital creation and publishing made for some friction between us. Though Dad had always been an early adopter of technology, bringing home a Commodore 64 soon after it hit the shelves, he had little regard for digital publishing tools like Photoshop. Whereas, I became a complete Photoshop fanatic. We challenged each other on the values of technology in art, design and publishing, probably our most dramatic generational split. Spirited conversations long into the night never completely resolved our differences. Just a couple of ornery hard-heads going at it. I got that from him.

I inherited many other traits from my Father — good and bad — and we had our differences. He liked pickled pigs feet. I did not. He served in WWII. I did not serve but was proud of his service. He ate Brussells sprouts. I did not and would not and once sat at the dinner table past Dad’s bedtime to avoid doing so (see “hard-heads” above). He liked to tend the vegetable garden. I did not. He worked at the same place for 28 years had a nice pension. I did not and do not. He had a temper. Okay, that’s another thing we had in common.

Three fun side story about temperament:

• Dad would take a nap after dinner most nights. My oldest brother Tim would try to make me and my brother Mike laugh until it woke Dad up. He’d yell and curse at us from inside the bedroom, which only made it worse.
• At the Olympics, my Mom’s admonishment to me every morning before Dad and I departed for the games: if your Dad gets upset, drag him to the nearest beer stand. Check.
• Father’s Day often fell within a few days of my Dad’s birthday (June 21). One year when the occasions coincided, Mom had an event to attend. She conspired to have Mike and me pretend that the day was like any other — not Father’s Day, not his birthday — until she could get home for the celebration. Yeah, no.

Dad and I both liked to be busy and productive. His consistent advice to me was to be professional, which I was. He advised me to speak my conscience, which I did. That got me into trouble a few times in my early career, so much so that Dad suggested I reel it in a little. He liked to hold forth; I do too. But I did once suggest to him that he ease up on that a bit, don’t rule the conversation unilaterally, and don’t get pissed off when others take the floor.

We both harbored regrets. I know we share regrets over shortcomings in our extra-vocational achievements. In retirement, he had planned to write a memoir about his youth during the Depression and my Gramma hustling him around south Michigan and northwest Ohio in a place called the Firelands. The stories he shared with me were riveting and I encouraged him strongly to get it out. He never did. That taught me a lesson that’s actually an impetus for this 60|60 series. Get it out while you can.

I have no memory of my Dad ever mentioning his Dad. His upbringing was complicated, so complicated that I’m not confident to share anything more than that he had four sisters and a brother, from several different fathers. He was born a Binder but went by his step-dad’s name Harris until he joined the Navy and became a Binder again. Even without a father figure to follow, he navigated his way to becoming a solid Dad in a single generation.

Too bad I won’t be passing it down. I am the end of this line. I think from my experience with my own Dad, I would have made a good father. Not in the same way, but hopefully as generous and smart and authoritative he was.

After that phone call in 2011, I didn’t see Dad the next day or ever again. He passed before I arrived, traveling from California to Michigan. Of course I was devastated by the loss and given to grieving introspection. In doing so, I came to accept that Dad left this world proud of me and his own legacy, and knowing that I loved him and I felt proud and fortunate to be his son.

On the day of his funeral, he got his picture and a nice write-up above the fold on the front page of the local paper and later a legit obit in The Washington Post, both lauding his service and achievements. Fitting for an old newspaper guy.

Sitting next to Mom at the grave site, staring at his flag-draped casket and witnessing the 21-gun salute and hearing Taps, I welled up with a combination of pride and sadness like I never experience before or since.

Thanks Pop. Happy Father’s Day.