I ran track in seventh and eighth grade while at Linden School. I was the skinny kid, with more ribs showing than most humans, and for me the dashes were the greatest kind of race ever. I was the either the starter or the finisher for the four team baton relay. Depending on which other elementary school, with which we were competing I was used to tear up the true in the beginning or ride to victory on the last lap. I moved on from athletics to theater, and doing my twenties I had the greatest time sharing my talents as director/choreographer/ and one year as a Playwright directing teens in Musical Comedy productions. For my track meets, my teen plays, I was always made more confident as my father sat on the bleachers or in the reserved first row. I was proud of my accomplishments, but grinned even wider when I saw my father cheer me on or wipe a tear from his eye as my name was mentioned. His dreams were big, but they had been reigned in by his parents, his plans were wonderful, but somehow the time of his youth was bad timing for his future. My dad, never denied my my adventures, he only cautioned me on looking ahead before I stepped into the fray. try it he would say, but know that trying it did not mean it would be right the first time, but that why we try, so we do better the next time around.
My father was alive for my first child, a son, the new king of the Buncher Family. We had the Bris, and this had been the third time I had really been witness to my fathers tears. The first was sitting in front of the TV watching Walter Cronkite explain to us about the Cuban Embargo and the ramifications of a nuclear war. My father in his solemn voice telling his children, I will protect you. the second time we watched as JFK’s coffin was marched down Pennsylvania Ave, with my father reminding us, good cannot be destroyed. This time my father held his grandson, with my hand around my fathers shoulders, and as my dad did so, he cried, telling me real happiness comes from a place you never knew existed, until its time to cry! My daughter, was born and the honor we could provide my father was his name, so she will always be surrounded by him.
Two kids later, a father myself, I cry at almost every beautiful moment in their lives. I worry when I see dishonesty creep toward them. I want to be a super hero whenever they seem distressed. It isn’t easy, its isn’t hard it IS wonderful to be a father. Time, sometimes is heavy, hard to wear to move from day to day when the burden of responsibility covers your body.I was a son, I am a father, I just hope, when the time comes and I am a memory, it is something that brings joy to my kids!
