Father’s Day

I have made mention several times of my “Mount Rushmore” of mentors. If anyone was paying attention to previous blogs, they may have noticed that I omitted my father from that mountain. So, on Father’s Day, I’ll shed a bit of light on that.

The image above is from the famous American illustrator Norman Rockwell, entitled Little Shaver. It depicts a young boy watching his father perform a morning ritual that almost all young boys have observed and most assuredly couldn’t wait to do themselves. I can attest to being guilty of both watching and eagerly awaiting the day I could do the same, and now regretting the need to shave on a regular basis.

The point is, I can clearly remember watching my young father shaving before work and asking him all types of questions about the activity. I had a particularly difficult relationship with my father. To be honest, I wasn’t the easiest child, teen, young adult or even adult. But in my defense, the child, teen, and young adult could have been guided a bit more adeptly by the adult in the room.

I’m not assigning any blame, quite the contrary. It is because of that difficult relationship that I have enjoyed a fantastic career, a meaningful marriage, and a healthy life. I’m thankful for the challenges we shared, but somewhat sad for my inability at the time to navigate them better.

My father was an athlete. He loved playing softball and, I believe, even fast-pitch baseball well into his mid-to-late sixties. He played basketball with all the neighborhood kids and had a fantastic outside shot that very rarely missed. His range was always what we’d now call three-point before the NBA even instituted that scoring system.

He was extremely handy, doing extensive remodeling and home projects, think Bob Vila with a doctorate. He had a wry sense of humor and was an avid reader. He always had some sort of sports car, more specifically a Fiat convertible. I remember when we moved to Florida, he’d take me through the drive-thru car wash when I was young, and we both had to use towels to block the water coming through the gap between the soft top and the window sill and being terrified the little convertible would flood out.

By and large, I’ve alluded to the fact on previous blogs, at least for me that I experienced an ideal childhood. Even during the turbulent 1970s, with a recession, gas prices through the roof, mortgage rates in double digits, and the constant threat of war with Russia, my father managed to hold it all together.

Saturday morning was cleaning day at the Kustin house. After whatever sporting events my brothers and I had, we’d return home to do our part. Separating laundry, stripping our beds, and cleaning our rooms. My father would put a stack of records, yes, records on the turntable, and that music played in the background as we worked. His collection spanned all genres. The stack definitely included Rumours by Fleetwood Mac, Breakfast in America by Supertramp, The Eagles’ Greatest Hits, Let It Bleed by The Rolling Stones, and even a Barbra Streisand album for my mom.

Sundays during the summer were pool days and barbecues with the grandparents. Pretty Norman Rockwell, right?

Truthfully, it wasn’t always like that. But it’s interesting what a person chooses to remember and what they choose to forget. Or, at the very least, what they choose not to hold onto so tightly.

I catch myself thinking about my father when I’m working in the yard and remembering how well he kept his. I think about how early he would get up to work, read, or plan his day before heading out to support his family. I remember how he never quit, no matter how challenging life became.

And it’s on this day, Father’s Day, that I honor all I have and all I’ve become because of him. Either as a result of, or in spite of.

To quote Boardwalk Empire’s Jimmy Darmody and his patented toast:

“To the lost.”
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.