Of all the things I have ever done in my life, I have never smoked cigarettes or cigars for any extended period of time, (admittedly, there's not a guy in creation who can say that he hasn't done so at least a time or two, particularly, when a friend has a baby, or does something else they deem suitably cigar-worthy,) but it's never been a habit with me. I have never been peculiarly adept with numbers, and it would probably be ludicrous at this point in my life to contemplate a law degree. I have never worked for a tobacco company. What have I done? I married a woman I would live to question my own judgement about. (the first one, that is.) Through some fault of mine, and some fault not of mine, I have not known about every day of my children's lives, much as I might have liked to. On the up-side, I have just turned on the radio and danced with my daughters, and they liked it as much as I did. I taught them to read, and to roller skate. I have ordered steaks medium-rare. I have gotten much more conservative with age. This is just a short-list. There are probably a million other things. A million other ways I am exactly like my own father, differences be damned; or at least accountable to the crapshoot of genetics. On the radio the other day, I heard Harry Chapin's "Cats in the Cradle" and damned near cried. Particularly now, that song just takes my heart and twists it in knots. I will not claim I have respected or adored my father every day of his life, at the times he deserved it, or would have understood it more fully than he does now. But man, talk about a sentiment that hits. For those who have never heard it, it's the tale, from the perspective of both father and son, of how, even in absentia, even in the moments when we're contemplating it least, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. The important moments, when even as the father is walking away to do something more pressing, the son still says, "I'm gonna be like him/Ya know I'm gonna be like him." The important addendum, at least from my own perspective, is that when the father does have time, and wants to see his son, not only is it a situation where "The new job's a hassle, and the kids have the flu/But it's sure nice talking to you, dad, it's been sure nice talking to you," you simply never know how many meaningful days there are going to be. I wanted, at some point before now, to go to a baseball game with my dad; I mean, I've been to baseball games, and been fishing, and enjoyed many times with my father. I've even heard him say he was proud of me. There was probably a lot I wanted, or should have wanted before the point in my father's life when he is so very hollow, comparatively speaking. I know I never dreamed in a million years he'd be like he is now. The simple truth is, one never truly knows how many meaningful days, or how many days, period, will make up a given lifetime. And not every one will be a Kodak moment. It's just sad to fully recognize the value of the good ones. And whether he ever understands anything fully again or not, which in all likelihood, he won't, there's still only one thing to say. Thanks, dad.

My relationship with my father has also been important, because it made me aware that doing things like riding my bike, and taking my cholesterol medication, and skipping the red meat once in a while, matter. In short, of course, that which you don't do sometimes matters just as much or more than what you do. And I know I have admonished before that it's a good thing to "teach your children well," but never forget that whether you're teaching them or not, at least consciously, they're always learning. Remember that.