My dad grew up in a time when men wore their emotions close to the vest, not on their sleeve.
“I love you” were words reserved, mostly, for the woman in a man’s life, and then, only said in private, shared moments.
I was like that too. Even now, I tend to bottle things up and keep my emotions private, lest anything else be seen as a sign of weakness.
It all started to change, though, with, of all things, a beer commercial.
It was 1995. The same year Erin and I welcomed the first of our two children into the world.
Bud Light — which, back then, had actual marketing geniuses on staff — ran a series of commercials. The campaign’s spots always ended with a man — a manly man — tearfully saying to another man, who was, also, a manly man: “I love you, man …”
Man.
My dad liked those commercials and started mimicking them when we’d part ways after a family outing. It was a “dip your toes in the water of sharing your feelings” kind of thing.
He’d hoist a beverage, or deliver a hug, and say, “I love you, man,” impersonating the tearful delivery of the guy in the beer commercial.
He was being funny. But, he meant it, too.
Looking back now, that was the beginning of a long, gradual change in how both my dad and I wore our feelings.
They started moving, bit by bit, from the vest — to the sleeve.
Three weeks ago, when I saw my dad for what would be the last time, and I didn’t know it, we hugged and said, “I love you,” un-ironically, without the comic relief of a 30-year-old Bud Light commercial.
He’d been ill for quite some time and we were aware of the inevitable. But we still thought it would be — later.
And now, I’ve been planning a funeral. I admit, there have been moments when I’ve felt lost in the process.
One of the things he left behind for us to get through that was a copy of a piece of writing called “The Dash,” by poet Linda Ellis.
I’m willing to overlook the fact that it’s not one of my own pieces of writing, because it’s profound, so Dad, you get a pass on this one.
It says, in part: “I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning to the end. He noted first came the date of the birth and spoke the following date with tears. But he said what mattered most of all was the dash between the years.”
Well, my Dad filled “The Dash” quite well.
Born in Canada, he immigrated — legally — to the United States in the 1960s, because he was chasing a girl, who had immigrated — also legally — with her siblings and parents.
That girl would be my mom. And the rest, as they say …
Professionally, he was an accomplished design engineer, having drawn up the development grading plans for a lot of communities you may know: Porter Ranch. Plum Canyon. And, the Saugus tract off Seco Canyon Road, where he picked out his favorite view lot, and where he lived until he got to the end of The Dash.
Digressing a bit, here’s a story about his career that’s always made me smile. It comes from the middle of The Dash:
When I was a teenager, we went to the movies to see “ET: The Extraterrestrial.” It was during the movie’s first theatrical run, around 1982.
You know the scene near the end where the kids and ET are on their bicycles, flying down a housing construction site as they flee from the authorities?
In the middle of a crowded movie theater, my Dad, who was a pretty reserved guy, blurted out:
“That’s my slope!”
Yep. He designed the slope where Elliot and ET went for their last wild ride together before ET pointed to Elliot’s heart and said, “I’ll be right here.”
Indeed. He will.
Later, once my Dad retired from designing famous slopes, he spent a lot of his time chasing his grandkids while they were chasing their dreams: hockey, cheer, gymnastics, lacrosse, soccer, cross country — he was very proud of all four of them, and their accomplishments.
He loved family trips to Disneyland — especially at Christmas — and country music, cowboy culture and dancing. He would hear a song — just about any song — and say, “I could two-step to that.”
He was a sports fan. Hockey first and foremost — Canada roots, of course. And in his days as a player, he was about the smoothest-skating defenseman you ever saw. One of the highlights of my childhood was when I was about 8 years old and I begged him to let me bring my hockey gear with me to watch him play on a Friday night, just in case his team needed an extra guy. And, that night, the grown-ups let me play. Pretty sure they let me score a goal.
He also loved football, first the Los Angeles Raiders and then the Chargers. And, NASCAR, something he got me hooked on when I was a kid and we’d go to Saugus Speedway on hot summer Saturday nights. That later grew into a 20-year-plus run where we camped in our RVs in the infield at Auto Club Speedway every year.
And in the midst of watching those sports, he loved a good beer commercial. Including that one that taught him — and me — one of life’s most important lessons.
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve said it to most of the people closest to me, and if I haven’t yet, I will. My wife and kids. My mom, my sister and all of our extended family.
And, when I summon the gumption to hold my “stuff” together long enough to say a few words at his celebration of life today, I’ll say it to my Dad, once again:
“I love you, man.”
—30—
Tim Whyte is The Signal’s editor.
