13 Again

I was never one of those people that put much faith in the 13th of the month. The dozen or so Friday the 13th's I've witnessed in my life have come and gone bringing no significance other than bringing me one day closer to another weekend. That is until 2009. June 13, 2009 at 12:07 am to be exact. While the rest of Pittsburgh celebrated the Penguin's Stanley Cup victory, I mourned the passing of my father.

Dad and I always had a complicated relationship. I'm sure the 6 foot 4 ex-Marine failed to appreciate the universe's sense of humor when it handed him a baby girl who grew into an introverted nerd lacking any common sense or sense of direction.

Dad kept a picture of me in my wallet that pretty much encapsulated our relationship. When I was 9 or 10 Dad bought a Harley Davidson. He'd been saving up to buy one for years. Dad worked as an electrician whose paycheck varied with the seasons, so I'm sure he sacrificed a lot to buy it. My bedroom at the time sat right above the garage, so when I felt my floorboards vibrating a little after 10 on a Saturday morning, I knew something was going on.

I reached the garage right seconds before I heard the Harley's obnoxious roar. Dad eased it into the driveway I eyed him with contempt. See my sister Emile and I really wanted to get a pool for our backyard. We'd been begging Mom and Dad for one ever since school let out a few weeks previously. Despite our (in my opinion) very logical arguments, as well as our (in their opinion) illogical tantrums Mom and Dad made it clear that we were not getting a pool because we could not afford one. As Dad climbed off his bike eying me hopefully, I looked him right in the eye, asked "Is this really necessary?" turned on my heal, and stormed into my bedroom to sulk. I refused to speak to him for the rest of the day.

That night, however, curiosity got the best of me and I decided I needed to ride the Harley. Even though it was one of those 80 degree summer nights, I pulled on a pair of jeans, one of Dad's old flannel shirts, the protective goggles from my science kit,  and my grass-cutting Reebok's. I figured if I was going to do something ridiculous I might as well look the part.

Thank goodness my scatter-brained pre-teen self didn't think my ingenious plan through enough to grab the key's to Dad's new ride or I probably wouldn't be sitting here to write about it. Ten minutes later Dad found me in the garage sitting on the Harley shaking my fist at it because it wouldn't start. Rather than give me the scolding I deserved, Dad started laughing. Not the he-he that's-my-Becky-being-simple laugh but the one hand on the belly, one hand on the door frame, tears rolling down his cheeks laughing. Dad promised he wouldn't tell Mom if I let him take a picture. He kept that darn picture in his wallet until the day he died.

Dad certainly wasn't perfect and never claimed to be. As I grew up, I began to understand the impulsive way he made decisions as symptoms of the much larger disease that eventually claimed his life. But today I don't want to focus on the details of his death. I don't want to pass the blame, or fantasize about what if, because at the end of the day all I can expect from the past is wisdom for the future. On the day that marks the two-year anniversary of his passing, I want to remember the Dad who carried the picture of his four-eyed daughter with him wherever he went and who taught me that a good laugh is the best medicine for dealing with life's everyday absurdities.