The wisdom my 77-year-old father has passed on to me came more through osmosis than lectures. From making "the best pancakes you kids have ever eaten" on Saturday mornings, to assuring tearful teenagers studying for finals that all they needed was a good night's sleep and everything would be better in the morning, my dad's dogged optimism shines through. It is a big part of the reason I recovered after a pelvis-smashing accident, when I was run over by a truck: My father assumed that I'd be jogging with him again.
Old age hasn't slowed him, mainly because he doesn't think almost-80 is old. I should have taken a photo of my dad swimming in the lake in front of our cabin in Alaska last summer to show you what he looks like. He is strong, and about 5'10", 150 pounds, with a long French nose, blue eyes and a great smile. He had come for a visit and was training for a charity swim across the Hudson River in New York, where he lives. He did complete the Hudson swim a month later in New York.
If you ask my father whether or not his life has been hard, he will say he is a lucky guy. Not in a Hollywood way—he means the kind of happiness that comes from sharing a well-cooked family meal, taking a good long run or growing a perfect tomato. Did I mention that he used to run marathons before his knee replacement surgery? He's the one who convinced me I could do it, too. "Anyone can run a marathon," he said, "as long as you put in your time training."
My father was born in 1933. His London childhood took a turn at the beginning of World War II: His father enlisted in the French Army and was captured by the Germans and spent the war in a prison camp. My dad and his mother and sister were shipped off to New Jersey to live with relatives. His mother suffered from depression, and Dad went to boarding school in New England from the sixth grade on.
When I was 10, a neighbor was hit by a delivery truck and killed while riding her bicycle to play at the school ballfields. A few weeks after that funeral, Dad and I played catch in the backyard. "Two hands, keep your eye on the ball," he coached as we tossed it back and forth over the clothesline. Anyway, I asked him why that awful truck had killed my friend. It was so unfair. Dad said, "Life's not fair." He didn't say it with any bitterness at all. He said it like Satchel Paige said, "You win a few, you lose a few. Some get rained out." Even an optimist like my dad understands that some things don't turn out right. The difference is, he knows it is your response to hard times that counts.
He loves getting cards in the mail, and usually I'm late, so instead I call him on Father's Day. But this year I've decided to be early for once. Before he takes another skydive or a frigid lake swim, I want to let him know how much he means to me. Dad, thank you—for all of it. For playing catch in the backyard, the stories, the homegrown tomatoes, the running shoes, college, the first-aid kits (he likes us to be prepared for his visits) and mostly for your enduring faith that everything will be OK.
