taking and giving

today is my father's birthday. he is 48, which is exactly twice my age. here: my second favourite story about him takes place before i factored into any calculations.

they (my parents, that is) had just moved to New Jersey, with all of their worldly belongings in a moving truck (auto included, driven therein, against all odds and warnings). my mother was teaching, supporting the family (as it were), while dad worked at various jobs and trades, which were close enough for him to use a bike for going and coming. (these, in contrast to the commute into Columbia for grad school, the subsequent getting caught in crossfire involving guns. but that, my friends, is another story.) on the way home from some money-making venture or other, dad pedaled to the bank. this was back when not only did people do things like that, but also when, upon reaching the drive-through teller, one was met with a little Huxley-esque canister. the suctioned delivery of the tube was, apparently, in this instance, too fast for the woman observing the whole scene from her aquarium. she had seen dad wheel in past the cars; she imagined that she knew that this was Not Allowed and, having failed at withholding the apparatus itself, had decided that the proper form of chastisement would be a taunting "no withdrawal or deposit for you." however, dad was holding the cylinder of power and the woman was forced into speaking through metallic overtones of 1980s transmitting equipment; as he cycled off, holding tight to the container, he probably glanced back and, before long, couldn't even see her fishy mouth gaping and closing.

i imagine him climbing the hill to our ramshackle house on North 4th Street, with the swiped object lifted above his head in triumph; i know, though, that this rendition is most likely inaccurate in all but the threadbare plaid shirt i see him wearing. instead, after bounding up the creaking steps, he displayed the evidence, told the tale—and when my mother instructed him to, right away, this moment, bring it back to its rightful owner, he knew that she was, well, right. that he would do exactly as she commanded in no way, though, detracted from the spirit of righteous glee in which the act was committed in the first place. he would do it again. he has.

this kind of attention to detail as it variously manifests itself (in truth, humility, and brazenness) substantiates the love, about which i have no choice, into respect of the highest order.

happy birthday, dear dad. happy birthday to you.