It’s Father’s Day, and I’m worried. Mostly because I’m not sure if the card I put in the mail to my uncle will get to Minneapolis on time. In fact, I’m almost sure it won’t. Not that it will matter, I’ll still call him, we’ll chat about life, the Twins standings, and whether, after yet another Boston championship since the time I’ve relocated to New England, my sports allegiance has finally turned (Red Sox, Patriots and Celtics were an unequivocal “no.” Bruins? That could be another story).
We BS in the classic tradition of all fathers and sons, because, well, that’s who my uncle’s been to me for my 31 years. It’s why he’s getting a card that should have been mailed earlier, but sat in my bag before I remembered to put a stamp on it.
In more ways than he may care to recognize, my Uncle (Al, if you’re curious. “Skipper” if you were my grandmother. Again, another story), is partially responsible for me being the man I am today (though I’m sure it’s completely transparent to my aunt and mother. Also, these two women, as well as my grandmother, have equal shares of the blame. Still another story). My uncle is the reason I got into Star Wars – he saw Episode IV in the theater somewhere numbering in the double digits, as he tells it, and thus was one reason I saw Phantom Menace multiple times in the theater (Maybe he shouldn’t get credit for that one). He’s the reason I’ve been a Star Trek fan since the first time I saw Kirk, Spock and Bones beam down to a planet. My love of bacon? He surpasses it. Gets fresh – meat market fresh – bacon and sausage, and has for years. And as an old family folklore goes: My first beer was his. A stolen Blatz when I was a toddler.