Sometimes the best gift we can give is the one that has already been given to us...
In the past few weeks, sales of bad ties and unpopular books have undoubtedly skyrocketed as sons all across the nation scramble to buy their dad’s Father’s Day gift. I used to be in the middle of that throng until it dawned on me that my past Father’s Day gifts were way off the mark—they didn’t acknowledge how he had gifted me as my role model. It was time for a more holistic approach. Unfortunately, this realization comes into crystalline focus on this, my first Father’s Day since my Pop passed.
My Father loved music. Growing up, our house was filled with all kinds. From opera and classical, with dabs of the Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel thrown in for good measure. His love for it was never more apparent than when he sang in the church choir, which makes total sense to me--listening to music is a blessing--but as moving an experience as it is, it’s relatively passive to the act of making music. Watching my Father as he sang in the choir on Sunday mornings was like seeing a jewel in a different light, one that allowed me to see facets that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. Over time, the radiance of what I saw began to reflect back, illuminating parts of me of which I was previously unaware.
As much as my Father loved to sing, though, he loved to dance even more. Specifically, Greek dance. His knowledge of the various dances and their origin was outstripped only by the sheer bliss he experienced at the head of a line of dancers. Watching him pull his handkerchief out to begin dancing was like watching a bullfighter draw his cape. The handkerchief tethered him to the dancer to his left, allowing spins and turns that handholding couldn’t accommodate. And then it was onto the dance floor itself.
He’d start slowly, as if he was testing the ground beneath his feet. Then he’d lead the line in a couple of trial laps around the dance floor. Whereas some Greek dancers used their feet like jackhammers, my Dad’s feet were like a hummingbird’s wings. There was no thunder in his step, only lightning from the sparks his feet threw off as they glanced and kissed the ground. And when the music changed key mid-song, his eyes would rise and he’d look upward—it was time for lift off.
At its height, he left the dance floor. Leaping into the air, the mad ballet crescendoed with the delicate swoop of his right hand as it smacked the tops of his shoes. It was a gesture of unbridled ecstasy from a man whose feet had become magic carpets, transporting us all in the process.
Watching him as the last strains of the music died and he returned to earth, I knew two things: first, that I’d never be able to dance as well as he did, which I could accept. But more importantly, I had to find a way to get to that place my Dad visited when he danced. Thankfully, I’m still trying.
One of the epic confrontations between my Pop and me centered on a decision I made years ago to quit being a lawyer for a life in the arts, first as an actor, then as a writer. It was a choice that in its best light bewildered him, and in its dark manifestation was the source of much fire and pain. Thankfully, we were able to come to an understanding of each other before he passed, which was the greatest gift a father and son will ever exchange.
But that was our path.
So take back that bottle of cologne your dad will never use or the tie that will forever hang limply in the back of his closet. For my money, the best gift you can give your father this Father's Day is a life well led—one filled with your own song and dance.