My Pop

My dad’s celebrating his 68th birthday today. Just called to wish him a happy happy and he said, “You know, until your mother told me I’d totally forgotten.”

He wasn’t lying. My dad genuinely doesn’t care about his birthday. He’s not big on gifts or making a big fuss. Give the man a nice back scratch and a cookie and he’s pretty damn happy. Toss in a half-hour nap, he’s euphoric.

Can’t say enough good things about my father. He’s always been the person I aspire to become. His greatest attribute—and I’ve written this before—is an ability to see the good in all. Or, to be more precise, to not look for the bad. How many people do you know who genuinely don’t talk shit? Who rarely, if ever, have bad things to say about anyone? Dad might moan about politics … might criticize a movie … might disagree with a certain genre of music. But if you know him, I can assure you he has never uttered a bad word about you. Just not his way.

Happy birthday, Pops …

PS: One thing Dad and I share—an inability to master the fake smile.

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