“Push in the clutch!”

Father’s Day has never been as hard as one would have expected it to be.  I’m sure it’s hard on my mother.  I’m sure it’s difficult for my family to think of but for me, it has never been that stinging.  Just because he hasn’t been around, doesn’t mean that someone else hasn’t been.  I still don’t want to talk about him today.  We talked about him enough a few months ago.  There is someone else I would rather give homage to, and a man far deserving of it.

On the previous About Me page, I briefly mentioned that I have been fortunate enough to have a handful of great men to step in and take over the void that was left when my own father passed away.  These great men – family friends, my orchestra conductor growing up, and my old boss at a small coffee shop in Corvallis – all have played instrumental roles in my life.  They have all given me those wise ‘fatherly’ bits of wisdom and at times crude humor.  I have cried with these men, screamed bloody murder at a few, and was even taught how to give a proper hug by one.  These are some great men.  And they had some massive shoes to fill.

One in particular though is the man who I describe as the man who raised me.  I’m sure I could come up with a better moniker for him, but to be honest, this is rather fitting.  For now, I am going to call him the Asshole.  Excuse me, Mr. Asshole.  He is far from one, though he often believes himself to be.  He would probably curse me a bit for sharing the fact that he is indeed kind and giving, and I have even seen him cry.  Once.

This was the man who taught me how to drive.  My mother had made an attempt at it but needless to say, her white knuckles did not bode well for my 15-year-old “I’M AN ADULT, MOM!” hormones and he quickly separated We Burger Women before one of us ended up buried next to my father.  He was patient, understanding, gave all commands in German (which I now give to other people when giving directions), and never yelled when I stalled and lurched trying to make the clutch and gas move in some semblance of smooth, forward motion.  I got the hang of it and I owe it all to him.  Well, far more than that actually.

I keep pictures of Mr. Asshole and me in my apartment next to pictures of my father.  We are never smiling in these pictures and that is quite fitting of us.  We have shared our glory moments of laughter together (mostly at my mother’s expense) but only one piece of evidence exists of this and that photo is lurking in Florida at my mother’s house.  I think it is a bizarre sense of understanding we share between us.  If I didn’t know the difference, I could swear to you that this man is my father.  And when people mistakenly ask if I am his daughter in introduction, I take a sense of pride in it.

He is much of the reason I moved back to Oregon.  The best day I have had so far was with him in Corvallis.  We sat in the yard and watched our dogs run laps, chasing their tails.  I remember sitting back and staring at this man knowing that though I am not even remotely close to the time zone that my nearest biological family lives, I have one of the best parts of my family here.  If he ever leaves, I may chase after him.  He has become a part of me and the past decade would have been a dull existence if it weren’t for him.  It takes one strong man to keep me in line but he has managed to do it and stick around for these great ten years.  I may be the source of a few (hundred) gray hairs on his head, and he is at times the source of angst ridden phone calls to my mother.  Yes, he is an asshole but he is my Mr. Asshole. So to you, Happy Asshole’s Day.