While en route to a Kardia show, listening to the audio book of Nick Offerman's "Paddle Your Own Canoe - One Man's Recipe for Delicious Living," I began to take stock of the teachers I had as a kid. Some were great, some mediocre, some adequate and some were downright, terrible. And I'm not simply talking about the graduate degree-bearing, scholastic educators that our country has neglected over the years, though some of them made an appearance. I'm thinking of the many people who made a difference in my life, showing me how to do things, how to (not what to) think, and so on.
Of course, I had work to do, so no such blog was written, until now.
Number one, in chronological order and quality of lessons learned (Don't be mad, Mom)
Is my Dad. Here are the things that stood out at first.
Discipline - My dad, like myself, is a Christian. As a kid, if I actually woke up before the last possible minute, I would find him at the breakfast room table, with a cup (more likely his 3rd) of coffee, a bowl of Wheaties, and his King James Version. While I still wake up at the last possible minute, I try to maintain a discipline of reading and studying - Though I use the English Standard Version... And it's almost never in the morning.
For a brief time, I dabbled in a combination of Shodokan Karate and Small Circle Jujitsu, mentored by my dad and another member of the law enforcement community. It wasn't a lot, just learning with a group of kids at church, a few nights a week. I did get to practice at home, in the kitchen. Until Dad and I would get scolded by Mom for rough housing. But we never got hurt, and no one ever called the police to report a domestic disturbance. I still practice some of the techniques once in a while. They can be useful.
Safety and Security - Dad was a cop, and a good one. I had aspired to be one too (what kid doesn't want to be like his dad) but that didn't pan out. But through his example, and very little explanation, I despise sitting with my back to a window, door, or any point of ingress/egress. And I'm always watching my surroundings when I'm out. Of course, if I'm out to eat with him, I'll let him face the door, I figure he'll let me know if something goes down.
Unless I am at my house, relaxed, with my feet up, and the doors locked, there is a greater potential for a dangerous situation. The safety of my wife, and those around me is my top concern. You might call it paranoia, but I call it situational awareness. Of course, I live in an apartment in a metropolitan area with a high crime rate, and extremely strict firearms regulations to which the dangerous ones don't adhere... I don't relax. Ever.
Firearms - I couldn't proficiently ride a bike until I was around 11 years old. But at 9 years, my dad took me to some outdoor range where I learned the value of a Glock 9mm (I think it was a 17 or 19), a Ruger 10/22 and some form of shotgun, the recoil from which, scared the crap out of me. Firearms basics were instilled in me from a young age, and were I to raise children, you can bet they'd be raised with the same healthy respect for firearms as I. If I had any curiosity regarding the guns in dad's locker, I was to speak up and ask him. And I'm sure I did from time to time.
I support the second amendment and stand against any attempt to undermine it. If you don't want a gun, don't get one.
Handiness - I could not be less serious. I am quite possibly the least handy out of all of my peers. It's a running joke with my band mates, "Hey, Jeff - go ask your wife to get *this tool*." Because my beautiful and lovely wife knows more about power tools than I. I did change a tire yesterday, so I'm not completely useless. But the notion of my being a handyman died about a week after Dad showed me how to replace the breaks in my 1995 Isuzu Rodeo... Loved that truck...
My inability to fix anything continued to not develop when I bought a house in a town where -26 degrees is normal in the winter. If I ran out of oil, which would happen on occasion, I would have to fill the tank, and bleed the air out of something attached to my boiler, then restart it, and pray I did it right. And I usually did.
So, Dad's handyman lessons were lost on me, not for lack of trying. But I can change the crap out of a flat tire in a lightning-fast forty minutes.
I also know which end of the screwdriver to hold.
Chivalry - This should speak for itself. My dad is a gentleman. Professionally, personally, in all measurable aspects of life, he puts others first. The nature of his career is such that he puts himself at risk, every day, for the safety of others.
He holds the door for women, men, and children. I definitely inherited this one, but I try to keep it under control. If I don't watch myself, I'll end up holding it for the next 20 people because their dad never taught them to be generous and courteous. Poor saps.
Patience - After raising three boys, It's hard to imagine how my dad managed to maintain his countenance while dealing with us, and the 90 billion friends we had over. (Probably had an easier time than Mom) My older brothers may have a better handle on patience than I do. (they are both raising daughters, God help them) My version of patience is just a quiet tolerance for things I think are annoying or pointless. Am I doing it right?
Sarcasm - I don't know how, but I'm sure he's to blame for my snarky, sardonic side. He's referenced "The Spiritual Gift of Sarcasm" many times. A play on the spiritual gifts described in the New Testament. Often, I hear the question, "Well, was Jesus sarcastic?"
The answer is, "Yes, but not all the time."
I generally use sarcasm as a way of exemplifying a ridiculous scenario to prove a finer point.
I find that sarcasm is the best defense mechanism short of a pistol, and you don't need a license for it.
In closing: Is my dad the dad that you always wanted?
Don't be stupid, of course he is.
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