My Old Man of Steel

I didnt get to celebrate Father's Day with the old man yesterday. The circumstances of the day conspired to prevent me from hanging out with Dad and the rest of the family on this year's celebration of Fathers and fatherhood.

I spent Saturday in bathroom renovation hell, where everything and anything that could have gone wrong went wrong and where I spent my day pasando trabajo. Where even the simplest of things turned into a frustrating, neverending adventure that seemed as if everything was occurring just to make my life difficult and piss me off. By the end of the day I was exhausted, had a massive backache, my fingers felt like theyd been stepped on by cleats, my head was pounding out Wagner's Ride of the Valkyres and I had a nice little gash in the bottom of my foot. I wont even mention the stomach ache/no working toilet/fifty trips to the local BK bathroom issue.

So Imagine my reaction when at the end of the day, the old man calls me up and says he needs some help in the morning.

"I couldnt find anyone to help me load the gates onto the truck," he says over the phone. "I need you to come over first thing in the morning. It'll only take a few minutes but I need you to be here early."

And of course, you know I couldnt say I couldnt make it, or tell dad that Id help him Monday morning or something because, well, Sunday just happened to be Father's Day. About the only thing I had looked forward on Saturday bathroom renovation day from hell was being able to sleep in on Sunday.

So yesterday, on Father's Day 2008, I woke up early. I complained to myself not only that I had to get up at the crack of dawn, but that my body felt like lead. I had aches and pain in places I never knew existed and I felt not only like I'd run a couple of marathons, but like I hadnt slept in days. Just putting on my socks and sneakers was excrutiating. But I trodded on.

On the way to Dad's, I dreaded the chore ahead of me. I had seen the gates he was talking about and they werent a couple of little 3 foot wide, lightweight, rinky dink gates. No. Each gate measured 10 feet long and a little over 6 feet high, made up of a 3 inch, heavy gauge tube steel frame with 1" heavy gauge tube steel pickets spaced 4 inches on centers. They're freaken heavy gates, thus the reason for Dad not finding any volunteers to help him load them onto the truck.

When I got to Mom and Dad's, the old man was already outside and the truck was already backed up into to the driveway. Mom had already made cafe and Dad was already sweating, donning his "work" clothes and steel toe boots.

I kissed Mom hello, gave Dad a big happy Father's Day hug and kiss and then went onto complain about my Saturday. Dad gave me a little "heh" with an accompanying smile and told me not worry about it. Said "Look on the bright side, at least you're not hecho mierda like me."

"Oh, come on, Dad," I say. "You're not hecho mierda. You're still pretty strong. Como un buey."

Then Dad, knowing that his son is tired and kinda grumpy says "Let's get to it so you can go back home and relax for a while."

And without either of us saying another word we both head over to where the gates are, Dad hands me a pair of gloves and I put them on as Dad straps on his weight lifting back brace. We then both untie our ends of the ropes holding the massive gates up against the wall without uttering a sound or coordinating the effort.

I've installed literally hundreds of gates like these with my old man. I've been working with my Dad on weekends and vacations and holidays my whole life. He's created and we've installed entire fences, window guards, gates, doors, ladders, spiral staircases, fuel tanks, columns, steel structures, decorative iron panels, steel gazebos, sliding truck gates...you name it. If it's of steel or iron, chances are my old man has made it and chances are that Ive helped him either weld it, grind it, paint it, carry it, load it, deliver it or install it.

When you've been working with someone for a long time, there's a certain wordlessness. You each know what you need to take care of while knowing exactly what the other needs to get done. It's all very precise, two people working as one to get something done. No need for words or directions. You trust each other, you know the way each other works, and depend on each other to do what's necessary to finish the job and get it done right.

That's the way dad and I work. In sync. If he's gonna need a drill in about 30 seconds, Ive already put in the right bit, run the power chord, connected it and am standing by the second he needs it. We dont need to exchange words. We just know what each other needs.

So there we are in front of the gates that Im there to load, I look over at Dad to make sure hes got his back brace on, crouch down, get a good grip on the steel and just as Im about to count one-two-three-go, Dad says "Remember your old man is old, so take it easy."

Of course what he says doesnt really register right then and there. Despite knowing his age, I dont picture my old man as actually old in my mind's eye. To me, he's still rock hard and strong as an ox, a big looming figure that lives by conquering steel with calloused hands and granite muscles.

The moment I start lifting the gate, my old man's words strike the very core of me. It feels like Im lifting the gate on my own, like the support at the other end of the gate that I could always count on and need just aint there. I look over at Dad and he's struggling. His face all contorted and red, showing truly just how much effort he's putting into the task. He's having trouble gripping the thing and his legs are trembly.

Yesterday, on Father's Day, I witnessed my old man's mortality. The iron and steel he's lived his life beating and conforming to his strength and will has finally begun to conquer him. At that moment, struggling with more than my share of that heavy steel gate, I saw weakness in my old man for the first time in my life. His forearms, blemished and scarred from decades of victory in his battles against steel, no longer rock hard and tone and able to carry their share of burden. His biceps and back and legs fighting an incapacity unkown to either one of us.

Yesterday, on Father's Day, we finished loading these big, heavy steel gates my Dad created with his own hands onto his truck. The old man was winded. He was slower. And the heavy lifting took a lot out of him. And as we each tied our ends of the gates to the truck frame that taste of that victory wasnt as sweet. We didnt step back and look at the accomplishment with the usual relish.

Yesterday, on Father's Day, as I took off my gloves and the old man unbraced his weight belt, he paused for a second, looked down at the ground and held himself up, leaning against the very same steel gate he created and which had taken so much out of him and said, slowly and almost whispering "I can't do this anymore."

Yesterday, on Father's Day, I didnt get to celebrate with the old man and the rest of the family. I didnt barbecue for him or share a beer or two with the old man and I was not there when he opened his presents. I wasnt there with him as he shared the day with his grandchildren and great grandchildren. But yesterday, on Father's Day, I was there when my father needed me. Doing what he and I do best, showing him that I am my father's son. My one regret is not that I missed the celebration.

Right now, as I type this, what I regret is that I should be helping him finish the job we started yesterday. I should be there to help him unload the gates or dig foundation holes. I should be there to pour the concrete or drill the anchors in. I should be there to level the gates, install the hardware and drill in the screws. I should be there helping Dad install what will probably be the very last steel gates he'll ever make.

I should be there because, well, everyday should be Father's Day.

Posted by Val Prieto at June 16, 2008 11:44 AM

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Posted by: Steve H. Graham at June 16, 2008 12:28 PM

Posted by: Ziva Sahl at June 16, 2008 01:53 PM

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