How a COVID-era hobby turned into a father-son tribute for the ages
Four of my friends have lost their fathers over the last 12 months. It’s a brutal statistic, yet not shocking. For those of us now over 50, the truth is that many of our parents are of a certain age. And have been.
My dad, soon to be 84, has a group of incredibly close friends who track back more than 60 years — just don’t tell them. They still hit the deli once a week, play Liar’s Poker, bullshit each other on the golf course, and talk far too loudly on their iPhones (usually on speaker).
This is not to say that there haven’t been close scrapes. One of my dad’s dearest, Roger, is a walking miracle at 87. In 2012 he was diagnosed with colon cancer that had already spread to his liver. The docs gave him three to five years. The docs didn’t know Roger. Badass. Stubborn badass.
When COVID hit, Roger got sick again and had to be hospitalized. It’s a long story, but let’s just say that the following words all apply: flatline, clamps, brain scan, pacemaker, ICU and life support. One hundred days in the hospital. Then a back surgery…
Roger survived. Somehow. Thirteen years later he’s getting ready to welcome his first great-grandchild. He’s also still playing Liar’s Poker and telling old lies with his oldest friends. And he still responds to my articles, whether to say thanks, or to agree or disagree. Always directly. Always politely.
Yesterday I reached out to Roger’s son, Danny, and we had a hilarious half-hour Zoom. We talked about life, family relationships — with and between our dads — and the meaning of it all. But the first thing I wanted to know about was the genesis of “My Dad’s BBQ Sauce” — and Roger’s image on the label. I had thought that Roger was the one who’d invented the condiment, but Danny set me straight:
“Well, we have three daughters. During COVID, I developed a sauce and they said it was ‘my dad’s barbecue sauce.’ So I was the ‘dad.’ And then I found this picture of my dad and I said, ‘that would look so cool on the sauce.’”
He was right. The picture looks cool because Roger was always cool. This guy was getting away with a cowboy hat in the 70s — pre-fad — in Chicago’s genteel northern suburbs. The photo of him on the label is from one of his sons’ football practices at Highland Park High School, which he attended every day. The practices.
Out of all of the dads in my father’s group when I was a kid, Roger was known as the ultimate discipline guy. In a good way. Danny described it:
“You got to see part of it, right? We listened to what he said. There were no negotiations like there are in today’s world. You tell your kids to do something now and the kid comes back and says, ‘well, what about this?’ No, it was very much of a — your dad told you to do something, you did it.”
Danny and his brother Jeff were always enterprising as a result. First a lawn-mowing business. Then other ventures, which led to starting their own insurance agency in 1998. Their mother, Ronnie, who is still one of my mom’s best friends, was always on the same page with Roger: A unified front on the values that matter.
As Danny and I were remembering some of our parents’ peers who’ve recently passed, we talked about the palpable way at our age that mortality increases the value of family time together. The cliche is true: every minute is a gift.
Of course, this applies to all sons and daughters and their moms and dads. But there’s a unique sensibility to father-son relationships, since time immemorial. Danny knew what I was talking about. He and Jeff share an office, but it might as well be a three-man set-up:
“Dad probably comes in two or three times a week. It’s usually after lunch with your dad and the other guys. You know, I just couldn’t imagine him not being here. You know? He’s managed to get through so many different things. My friends always say he’s got nine lives.”
But that’s the point. We don’t get more than one life. We get a single set of days and minutes, which are limited. And each one’s premium rises as we age.
Before Danny and I got off the phone, he told me a quick story about my dad that happened down in Boca a few years ago. It will sound familiar to anyone who knows Barry Golden:
“We’re sittin’ in the lunchroom after golf. And everybody’s hanging out at the table and your dad’s sitting there. And he’s telling one of his stories, and he goes like this (hyper gesture). And then he throws his hands down. Then his whole chair flips over backwards! Okay? And two seconds later he jumps up and just finishes the story. Never missed a beat!”
We roared.
A few years ago, after my dad turned 80, I had a long conversation with him about his life. More like an interview (old habits die hard). Near the end, I asked him what he thinks at this stage are the best ways he can spend his days. I was in no way fishing for the answer I received:
“Having a great relationship with my son. I don’t give a fuck about anything else. I don’t. You and I talking every night and laughing, that’s where I get all my happiness. Talking about the ballgames and golf and everything, it’s great. That’s what I look forward to every day.”
Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but when a son hears words like that, he doesn’t argue. The irony is that while my dad is a phone guy, I’m not. But he gets it. We talk for three minutes, five max. There’s always a laugh, usually about gambling, and then we’re done. Sometimes without even a “goodbye.” But rarely without an “I love ya.”
All of these minutes matter. The last one nearly as much as the next. It is the stuff of life.
**Dear Readers: THANK YOU for all of the comments and anecdotes you’ve emailed and posted in response to recent “Fathers & Sons” articles. It is now a featured series on TGM, so please keep them coming!
MICHAEL GOLDEN is a national award-winning journalist and the cofounder of One Million Degrees. To receive all new TGM content, plus special features and a free E-Copy of STAYING ALIVE, upgrade to an annual subscription!
Source: https://thegoldenmean2040.substack.com/p/father-time-why-new-minutes-together?utm_campaign=email-half-post&r=2lbyd&utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email
