@HomewithDean – Homily 06/16

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My father was born in the autumn of 1922 in Deer Trail, a little railroad town in eastern Arapahoe County, Colorado. When he was very small the family moved to Iowa, where he grew up on a farm just outside of Ottumwa. His accent was a muddled mix of midwestern, with some cowboy drawl from Oklahoma that he inherited from his father and passed on to me in my earliest years.My father was a man of few words. He wasn’t stern or stoic, just quiet. He once told me that he didn’t talk much because he didn’t have any good stories that anyone would want to hear. After all, he was from Iowa. Iowa was the opposite of interesting. Iowa was, in his view, a flat, featureless field with no big cities, no mountains, no great forest, no national parks. It was too cold in the winter, too hot in the summer. Nope, Iowa was the opposite of somewhere. It was nowhere, he was nowhere, and everything interesting in the world was somewhere else.My father was a heavy equipment operator. A cat skinner. That’s what you call someone who operates a Caterpillar tractor. He grew up, sitting on a tractor. He went to war and served our country sitting on a tractor. He came home from war to California and sat on a tractor. Everyone who ever worked with him agreed that he was the best operator they’d ever seen. I asked him about it once and he told me, “That’s not the kind of thing they give you an award for, son. Just a uniform, and sore body, and a paycheck.”I had my father‘s accent when I was young but I realized pretty early on that it sounded strange to my friends because I’m not from Iowa or Oklahoma. I grew up right here in Los Angeles. So I pushed it down and eventually it went away (although even now, if you listen carefully, y’all will here it slip out every once in a while). It just doesn’t fit a kid who was born in Newport Beach. Losing my accent offended my mother deeply—then again, most things offended my mother—but my father never said a word about it. In fact, by the time my own children were born, I realized his accent was barely noticeable. I had pushed mine down intentionally. His just faded away because it wasn’t something he cared about one way or the other. He wasn’t overly proud of it. He didn’t identify with it. He didn’t give it two thoughts. It was what it was until it wasn’t, and that was that. He was OK with me leaving it behind, the same way he was OK with leaving Iowa behind. I think my father was just very proud that his son wasn’t going to be no one from nowhere.My father died in the autumn of 1997. He was 75. I was 31. I lost him too early. Too early for my children to really know him. Too early for me to know him better. Like most children, I took him for granted. That’s what you do with people who you count on. My dad taught me a lot of things. How to fish. How to shoot. How to ride a horse. How to hunt. How to catch a baseball, throw a football, shoot a basketball. How to use tools. How to build. And yes, how to drive a tractor. He taught me how to work hard, even when it’s way too hot or way too cold. He taught me that discomfort and pain were not the same as injuries. They were just part of getting the job done. He taught me that the strongest men are also the kindest men.There was a lot about me he didn’t understand. The student, the artist, the seeker. He knew he wouldn’t have answers for the kind of questions I was asking and, instead of letting his pride stand in the way, he bought me a set of encyclopedias. And from atop his bulldozer at the landfill he always kept a lookout for books and other interesting things he could bring home. He especially kept an eye out for the bright yellow covers of National Geographic magazines, which he would pull out of the trash, dust off, and bring home just for me.He wanted me to see the world as he never got to. He wanted me to understand the world as he never would. He wanted me to go places and do things that he would never do. He wanted me to be someone from somewhere.My father didn’t live long enough to see if I really would make something of myself. If he had, I like to think he would be proud. I also think he would be surprised that all these years later I am more proud than ever to just be his son.Dad, you were never no one from no where. You were my rock. And when I look deep inside myself to the quietest places where I am most me, you’re still my rock, and you always will be.I miss you so very much. I love you. Happy Fathers Day.And to all you whose dads are still here, hold them tight while you still have them. If you look down you might just find that they have been the rock on which you’ve built yourself a beautiful life.