My father's birthday is a matter of dispute, but if you believe the date on his birth certificate, he turns sixty-nine today. If you believe his mother, you're one day late. And if you're like me, you're not even sure about the year. 1935? 1930? Is he sixty-nine or seventy-four? So much about him seems timeless, as if he comes from no era at all.
He was forty-one when I was born, if you believe the birth certificate (and if you're reasonably certain about the year.)
I was twenty-two the last time I saw him. I am twenty-eight now, a few months short of twenty-nine.
A few things I know for sure:
He believes the metric system is unpatriotic.
He used to throw dirty work boots at the television, when Ronald Reagan delivered State of the Union addresses.
He listened to Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and Loretta Lynn, but only when he was drunk, only on the weekends, and only in the basement.
If I turned the volume dial past "1" on my Disco-80 Portable Hits Machine, he would pound my door and scream. "1" was so low I had to tilt my head right above the record, and even then, I couldn't hear the music.
He never heard of pizza until he joined the Navy.
He hosed down the neighbor's dogs when they barked, and when that didn't work, he threatened them with a shot gun.
He thinks fiction is a waste of time.
Magazines he reads: National Geographic, Discover, Scientific American, The Nation, Time, Mother Jones.
He left the buckle on his belt when he beat me.
When DHS sent a social worker to look at a deep purple bruise on my cheek, he lied about it. (And I lied too, knowing the consequences).
He blames his children for his divorces, even though he cheated on all four wives.
He has never eaten Chinese, Indian, Thai, or Japanese food. "Nothing wrong with American," he used to say, when my mother tried to cook spicy sauces or strange fish.
One of my favorite memories is a union march, when Dad lifted me onto his shoulders and handed me a sign that read, The Course is a Curse! Vote Democrat! That was also the last time he held me.
I want to say, Happy Birthday, Dad. But I'm not sure it's your day, and I'm reasonably certain you won't care.