Why Father's Day always makes me blue (from '11)

I’m not sure why Father’s Day always makes me blue.

A writer’s website asked me to compose a short piece about Father’s Day. I know I’m destined to disappoint them.

I think they’d like me to write a literary cheerleader about how much I love the day when I can bask in the affections of my daughters and how that one day keystones the central role of my existence.

I just can’t do it.

It’s odd, I know, because I egotistically believe I am the world’s most exuberant father. As evidentiary proof, I offer my sorry bank account.

It’s impossible to calculate how far behind I am professionally because of the two tiny time bandits for whom I am responsible.

I’ve written about it often and will continue to do so because I can’t forget the time when our oldest was 4 and I overheard her and her little buddies reporting what their daddies did for a living.

One said hers fixed cars. Another said her daddy built homes. The little red-haired neighbor said her dad was a dentist.

What did Josie’s daddy do?

“He plays with me.”

I remember thinking, man, that’s not going to look good on the loan applications.

That’s just what she thought I did. She never saw me doing any work and any time she’d march into my old basement office with her Barbies and her imagination I’d slam the lid on the laptop and the two of us would sail off to Fantasyland.

But I’ll have lived a life fulfilled if the aforementioned anecdote winds up in the first paragraph of my obituary.

I’m always broke, but my daughters know they are my priority. My euphoric love for them dominates my entire existence 364 days a year.

But on Father’s Day I’d rather they go with their mother to visit her father so I can be left alone.

On Father’s Day I like to think about my father.

His 2004 obituary said he was an optician. To reduce a man’s life to a petty occupation is pathetic tribute.

What did he do with his life?

He played with me.

He taught me how to play catch, ride a bicycle and swing a golf club. It was on his lap where I learned my enduring love for simple pleasures like watching a good movie or any baseball game.

He taught me the importance of family and that being a good father was more important than being a good optician, which he, indeed was.

He taught me no man is better than any other merely because of what’s in his wallet. 

It was because of watching him that I learned just how much shoestring fun this world can be and what a difference it makes if when you ask someone, “Hey, how you doing?” you actually care about the answer.

Here’s what we’d do this Father’s Day if he were still around: we’d be sitting in our homes about 50 miles apart watching the U.S. Open -- no hugs, no cakes, no cards.

We’d be calling each other every 20 minutes or so to talk about the golfers, the course and how much we were looking forward to the next time we could golf together.

Golfing with Dad was to me like church is to other people only with beer and fart jokes.

He very well might have been the most fun man who ever lived. I’ll always remember his funeral as his last and best party. It was a carnival of love. He is much missed by many.

Having him for a father is a prevailing blessing of my life.

I didn’t need Father’s Day to remind me of that. We’d didn’t need to make an appointment to see each other for just one day a year when the people who make greeting cards say we should.

So please excuse me if my smile seems forced on Sunday when I unwrap the inevitable “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug. I’ll patiently listen to the girls read the cheerful crayon notes telling me just what makes me so special but, honestly, my heart won’t be in it.

Father’s Day is maybe the only day of the entire calendar year when I don’t feel like being a dad.

I guess I just wish I could still be a son.


Interested in reading more about Paul Rodell? Check out the Pittsburgh Magazine story I wrote about him in 2004. They flattered me by headlining it, "The Life and Death of Joe Pittsburgher."

Father's Day: Forever in Blue Jeans" ('09)

I knew I’d taken another leap toward insanity when I stared into the dresser drawer, the one dedicated to denim, saw six pairs of nearly identical blue jeans and thought: “Hmmm, maybe it's time to spring for another pair of blue jeans.”

And it’s true. I do need another pair.

I have my church blue jeans, my casual dress up blue jeans, my outdoor work blue jeans, and my trusty bar blue jeans (three pair).

It’s another reminder of the ways I don’t measure up to the old man.

Daddy never wore blue jeans.

He was an optician, a profession that doesn’t exactly stack up with lumberjacks and oil derrick leathernecks on the hombre scale.

But the man had style. He was always careful about his appearance and paid attention to how he looked. No matter the task, he always managed to wear spiffy clothing -- or at least half of him did. I’ll never forget the times I’d see him, shirtless, hunkering down in the garden out back, a posture that inevitably led to him unintentionally mooning the neighbors as he labored over the sprawl of zucchini.

I never got to ask him, he died in 2004, why he didn’t own jeans. But I suspect I know the answer: He thought they made him look poor.

I believe men from his august generation, the ones like my Dad who grew up poor, spent their lives trying to ensure they never looked it.

Sadly, my generation does the opposite.

I know many fine and dandy attorneys and bankers who dress as if they were as financially inconsequential as, well, underemployed freelance writers.

They never touch a lawn mower or a chain saw, yet they forever dress during their social time as if they were about to go dig a ditch.

Me, I enjoy outdoor work, but it’s ridiculous to own six pairs of blue jeans when all most of them do is protect my butt from an angry spring on poorly upholstered stool 7 down at the neighborhood tavern.

It’s an undeniable pity that as us men have gotten softer, our clothes have gotten tougher.

The toughest Americans ever, the continent conquerors who labored under Lewis & Clark, robed themselves, not in rugged blue jeans and steel-toed boots, but in animal skin and mocassins. They didn’t practice yoga, engage in team building exercises or require therapeutic counseling when a supply raft dashed against the rocks and sank all their jerky.

But just listen to the bitching in any airport from men in designer jeans who become incensed that United Airlines is charging them an extra $50 to tote their golf sticks cross country to Palm Springs for five days of desert recreation.

And, here’s a secret: Blue jeans, even the posh ones, aren’t all that comfortable. They’re stiff. There’s no give. They bind in places no real man likes to be bound. 

It’s a true triumph of marketing that Americans spend about $14 billion on blue jeans each year. If the pants are so durable, how come every year we keep needing to purchase more and more of them?

I suppose we have James Dean to blame for all this. It was him in the 1955 movie “Rebel Without a Cause” that started the transformation that led jeans from jeans being a perfectly utilitarian article of clothing to items of gaudy fashion that retail for hundreds of dollars.

There should be some sort of study about how the rise of the blue jean has coincided with the decline of the men who wear them.

I’d do it myself, but I need to rush out to the department store and buy a fourth pair of bar jeans before lunch.

The baseball playoffs start today and that means plenty of bar time. I don’t want risk having to set my soft ass down on stool 7 without the manly protection of a really tough garment that’s up to the task.

RRS: Why Father's Day always makes me blue

You’d think after 11 years I’d be over missing my father. Not that I’ll ever stop missing him. I mean over by missing him in my bones everyday. I’m not feeling as blue as I did when I wrote this for Father’s Day ’11. Those are his ashes in the decoupaged wine decanter I crafted for that purposes. I love being a Dad, but I still — on this day especially — really miss being a son.

I’m not sure why Father’s Day always makes me blue.

A writer’s website asked me to compose a short piece about Father’s Day. I know I’m destined to disappoint them.

I think they’d like me to write a literary cheerleader about how much I love the day when I can bask in the affections of my daughters and how that one day keystones the central role of my existence.

I just can’t do it.

It’s odd, I know, because I egotistically believe I am the world’s most exuberant father. As evidentiary proof, I offer my sorry bank account.

It’s impossible to calculate how far behind I am professionally because of the two tiny time bandits for whom I am responsible.

I’ve written about it often and will continue to do so because I can’t forget the time when our oldest was 4 and I overheard her and her little buddies reporting what their daddies did for a living.

One said hers fixed cars. Another said her daddy built homes. The little red-haired neighbor said her dad was a dentist.

What did Josie’s daddy do?

“He plays with me.”

I remember thinking, man, that’s not going to look good on the loan applications.

That’s just what she thought I did. She never saw me doing any work and any time she’d march into my old basement office with her Barbies and her imagination I’d slam the lid on the laptop and the two of us would sail off to Fantasyland.

But I’ll have lived a life fulfilled if the aforementioned anecdote winds up in the first paragraph of my obituary.

I’m always broke, but my daughters know they are my priority. My euphoric love for them dominates my entire existence 364 days a year.

But on Father’s Day I’d rather they go with their mother to visit her father so I can be left alone.

On Father’s Day I like to think about my father.

His 2004 obituary said he was an optician. To reduce a man’s life to a petty occupation is pathetic tribute.

What did he do with his life?

He played with me.

He taught me how to play catch, ride a bicycle and swing a golf club. It was on his lap where I learned my enduring love for simple pleasures like watching a good movie or any baseball game.

He taught me the importance of family and that being a good father was more important than being a good optician, which he, indeed was.

He taught me no man is better than any other merely because of what’s in his wallet. 

It was because of watching him that I learned just how much shoestring fun this world can be and what a difference it makes if when you ask someone, “Hey, how you doing?” you actually care about the answer.

Here’s what we’d do this Father’s Day if he were still around: we’d be sitting in our homes about 50 miles apart watching the U.S. Open -- no hugs, no cakes, no cards.

We’d be calling each other every 20 minutes or so to talk about the golfers, the course and how much we were looking forward to the next time we could golf together.

Golfing with Dad was to me like church is to other people only with beer and fart jokes.

He very well might have been the most fun man who ever lived. I’ll always remember his funeral as his last and best party. It was a carnival of love. He is much missed by many.

Having him for a father is a prevailing blessing of my life.

I didn’t need Father’s Day to remind me of that. We didn’t need to make an appointment to see each other for just one day a year when the people who make greeting cards say we should.

So please excuse me if my smile seems forced on Sunday when I unwrap the inevitable “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug. I’ll patiently listen to the girls read the cheerful crayon notes telling me just what makes me so special but, honestly, my heart won’t be in it.

My mind will be elsewhere

Father’s Day is maybe the only day of the entire calendar year when I don’t feel like being a dad.

I guess I just wish I could still be a son.

Interested in reading more about Paul Rodell? Check out the Pittsburgh Magazine story I wrote about him in 2004. They flattered me by headlining it, "The Life and Death of Joe Pittsburgher."

RRS: Why Father's Day always makes me blue

Gone 10 years, I’m not feeling as blue as I did when I wrote this for Father’s Day ’11. Those are his ashes in the decoupaged wine decanter I crafted for that purposes. I love being a Dad, but I still — on this day especially — really miss being a son.

I’m not sure why Father’s Day always makes me blue.

A writer’s website asked me to compose a short piece about Father’s Day. I know I’m destined to disappoint them.

I think they’d like me to write a literary cheerleader about how much I love the day when I can bask in the affections of my daughters and how that one day keystones the central role of my existence.

I just can’t do it.

It’s odd, I know, because I egotistically believe I am the world’s most exuberant father. As evidentiary proof, I offer my sorry bank account.

It’s impossible to calculate how far behind I am professionally because of the two tiny time bandits for whom I am responsible.

I’ve written about it often and will continue to do so because I can’t forget the time when our oldest was 4 and I overheard her and her little buddies reporting what their daddies did for a living.

One said hers fixed cars. Another said her daddy built homes. The little red-haired neighbor said her dad was a dentist.

What did Josie’s daddy do?

“He plays with me.”

I remember thinking, man, that’s not going to look good on the loan applications.

That’s just what she thought I did. She never saw me doing any work and any time she’d march into my old basement office with her Barbies and her imagination I’d slam the lid on the laptop and the two of us would sail off to Fantasyland.

But I’ll have lived a life fulfilled if the aforementioned anecdote winds up in the first paragraph of my obituary.

I’m always broke, but my daughters know they are my priority. My euphoric love for them dominates my entire existence 364 days a year.

But on Father’s Day I’d rather they go with their mother to visit her father so I can be left alone.

On Father’s Day I like to think about my father.

His 2004 obituary said he was an optician. To reduce a man’s life to a petty occupation is pathetic tribute.

What did he do with his life?

He played with me.

He taught me how to play catch, ride a bicycle and swing a golf club. It was on his lap where I learned my enduring love for simple pleasures like watching a good movie or any baseball game.

He taught me the importance of family and that being a good father was more important than being a good optician, which he, indeed was.

He taught me no man is better than any other merely because of what’s in his wallet. 

It was because of watching him that I learned just how much shoestring fun this world can be and what a difference it makes if when you ask someone, “Hey, how you doing?” you actually care about the answer.

Here’s what we’d do this Father’s Day if he were still around: we’d be sitting in our homes about 50 miles apart watching the U.S. Open -- no hugs, no cakes, no cards.

We’d be calling each other every 20 minutes or so to talk about the golfers, the course and how much we were looking forward to the next time we could golf together.

Golfing with Dad was to me like church is to other people only with beer and fart jokes.

He very well might have been the most fun man who ever lived. I’ll always remember his funeral as his last and best party. It was a carnival of love. He is much missed by many.

Having him for a father is a prevailing blessing of my life.

I didn’t need Father’s Day to remind me of that. We’d didn’t need to make an appointment to see each other for just one day a year when the people who make greeting cards say we should.

So please excuse me if my smile seems forced on Sunday when I unwrap the inevitable “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug. I’ll patiently listen to the girls read the cheerful crayon notes telling me just what makes me so special but, honestly, my heart won’t be in it.

My mind will be elsewhere

Father’s Day is maybe the only day of the entire calendar year when I don’t feel like being a dad.

I guess I just wish I could still be a son.

Interested in reading more about Paul Rodell? Check out the Pittsburgh Magazine story I wrote about him in 2004. They flattered me by headlining it, "The Life and Death of Joe Pittsburgher."

Father's Day Re-Run: Forever in Blue Jeans

This ran in October 2009 and had more to do with blue jeans than dads. But I've come to think of it as a Father's Day story. It, to me, seems to say a lot about fathers, sons and how we live our lives. Of course, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it is all about blue jeans. Either way, Happy Father's Day!

I knew I’d taken another leap toward insanity when I stared into the dresser drawer, the one dedicated to denim, saw six pairs of nearly identical blue jeans and thought: “Hmmm, maybe it's time to spring for another pair of blue jeans.”

And it’s true. I do need another pair.

I have my church blue jeans, my casual dress up blue jeans, my outdoor work blue jeans, and my trusty bar blue jeans (three pair).

It’s another reminder of the ways I don’t measure up to the old man.

Daddy never wore blue jeans.

He was an optician, a profession that doesn’t exactly stack up with lumberjacks and oil derrick leathernecks on the hombre scale.

But the man had style. He was always careful about his appearance and paid attention to how he looked. No matter the task, he always managed to wear spiffy clothing -- or at least half of him did. I’ll never forget the times I’d see him, shirtless, hunkering down in the garden out back, a posture that inevitably led to him unintentionally mooning the neighbors as he labored over the sprawl of zucchini.

I never got to ask him, he died in 2004, why he didn’t own jeans. But I suspect I know the answer: He thought they made him look poor.

I believe men from his august generation, the ones like my Dad who grew up poor, spent their lives trying to ensure they never looked it.

Sadly, my generation does the opposite.

I know many fine and dandy attorneys and bankers who dress as if they were as financially inconsequential as, well, underemployed freelance writers.

They never touch a lawn mower or a chain saw, yet they forever dress during their social time as if they were about to go dig a ditch.

Me, I enjoy outdoor work, but it’s ridiculous to own six pairs of blue jeans when all most of them do is protect my butt from an angry spring on poorly upholstered stool 7 down at the neighborhood tavern.

It’s an undeniable pity that as us men have gotten softer, our clothes have gotten tougher.

The toughest Americans ever, the continent conquerors who labored under Lewis & Clark, robed themselves, not in rugged blue jeans and steel-toed boots, but in animal skin and mocassins. They didn’t practice yoga, engage in team building exercises or require therapeutic counseling when a supply raft dashed against the rocks and sank all their jerky.

But just listen to the bitching in any airport from men in designer jeans who become incensed that United Airlines is charging them an extra $50 to tote their golf sticks cross country to Palm Springs for five days of desert recreation.

And, here’s a secret: Blue jeans, even the posh ones, aren’t all the comfortable. They’re stiff. There’s no give. They bind in places no real man likes to be bound.

It’s a true triumph of marketing that Americans spend about $14 billion on blue jeans each year. If the pants are so durable, how come every year we keep needing to purchase more and more of them?

I suppose we have James Dean to blame for all this. It was him in the 1955 movie “Rebel Without a Cause” that started the transformation that led jeans from jeans being a perfectly utilitarian article of clothing to items of gaudy fashion that retail for hundreds of dollars.

There should be some sort of study about how the rise of the blue jean has coincided with the decline of the men who wear them.

I’d do it myself, but I need to rush out to the department store and buy a fourth pair of bar jeans before lunch.

The baseball playoffs start today and that means plenty of bar time. I don’t want risk having to set my soft ass down on stool 7 without the manly protection of a really tough garment that’s up to the task.