The view through the windshield was nearly obscured by the falling snow. Thick flakes spun down to be pushed away by the force of the moving car, the wipers shoving the few that made it onto the glass aside. The headlights cut out a path maybe five feet in front of us, the rest was an inky darkness that hosted my imagination.
Tigers, elephants, and tropical birds danced in the dark as my mind took a virtual tour of the many zoos I'd been to. We were playing 20 questions again, my father and I, and I'd yet to narrow down what animal he may have picked.
"Does your animal have four legs?" I asked, and our game continued.
My father and my daughter Thea, circa 2019.
Most of my childhood memories feature my dad. We moved quite a bit, which led to me only having two semi-significant friends before my teen years. My siblings lived with my mother, and she did not reach out to contact me often. So, for many years my dad was my best bud.
He taught me songs I've never heard anyone else sing, gifted me my adoration of all things nerdy, and taught me to look at the world from a place of love. We embarked on many philosophical and physical adventures together, spanning from exploring old canals to the concept of God.
Although my dad has a very deep personal relationship with God as he understands him, his opinions on such things are often kept private. One day I outright asked my dad if God was real, and his response is one that symbolizes the sort of parent he is.
"Well," he said before taking a pause, "What do you think?"
He then patiently listened to my small mind's ideas on the matter, giving me space to form my own thoughts with him as a witness. He was like that a lot, choosing to only intervene in the formation of my world view when it involved something potent.
To this end, my father has only really asked one thing from me in life. Be a good person.
My pops and I sometime in my early 20's.
I think compassionate trolling is genetic for us. Can you tell by the face my dad is making here when I asked him to smile? He always does that when I try to take a picture with him. Someday when he leaves this world nearly every photo of us together will feature him making some silly face. This both annoys me and also makes me smile.
He is who he is, and damn anyone or anything that tries to change that. You'd have an easier time moving a mountain that influencing my father's mannerisms. This has led to him being a human that people either love or hate, with a gray area on the matter being virtually non-existent.
I guess he taught me that too, although I'm not quite sure he meant to.
He did mean to teach me many of the things that still mark my personality in my thirties. I love coffee; long ago my dad told me that people who drink coffee are happier, I believe this is cannon.
Although I do tend to be much more nihilistic than my father, a description that fits most others in comparison to him in all fairness, I do believe that people are mostly good. I believe in looking past faults to see who someone really is. Valuing people for who they are as spiritual beings instead of what sits at the surface. Helping the underdog and befriending the oddball.
I believe in doing the right thing even when it puts me through the ringer. Trying to leave the world a slightly better place than how I found it in my time here. My dad gave me all of these things, which have ultimately outlined a meaningful path for me on this earth.
When I welcomed Thea into this world, I had many ideas about the sort of mother I wanted to be because of my dad. Here you can see him talking to her about numbers on her first birthday.
He constantly talked to me about everything he could think of when I was small, making learning as fun as he could. This would frustrate me at times, as he corrected my language and phrasing quite often in the process. Now I see how I would not be able to pass as well-spoken had he not done so.
As my children have grown, I've had the joy of experiencing my father's techniques from a third-party perspective. Which brings me to my dilemma in writing for this prompt. How do I select a favorite family member when I have such a fantastic father, as well as two beautiful children?
I thought on this as I wrote, and came to a conclusion that I hopes works for the reader. All three of them are my favorite. However, I think it is cheating to select humans who I have made with my own body. So, I'll place the crown on my dad's head for this blog.
By now I've given dozens of reasons why this is, but please allow me to elaborate a tad more anyhow. My father is one of the few truly good people I've met in my life. He does not have it in him to speak ill of others, even when they have greatly wronged him.
My mother is famously known to have said something to him in a fit of rage, "You couldn't hold a grudge to save your life!"
If you think anything like my dad, you probably laughed at that. Who would pride themselves on the ability to hold on to negativity?! Although my father would certainly become hostile if you tried to hurt someone he loves, the man is made of forgiveness otherwise. He knows as well as anyone how flawed we can be as human beings, and he has no problem owning his own faults.
The dude himself with Thea, during the times of indoor masks.
The last reason I'd give ties into the name of this post. My dad has the ability to be unfathomably silly and deep at the same time. We often discuss the world through goofy metaphors that would likely just look like jokes to the observer. Of course, a good deal of the time we are just being weirdos while having a laugh.
Throughout most of my life we have taken turns calling each other Maynard. When titling this blog, I decided to Google what this name means. Brave or hard strength.
Given that my dad has always set his sights on being strong in hard times, showcasing bravery by following his values, I believe this name is perfect for us to exchange. He is my Maynard, my large dad-creature who taught me how to navigate this strange planet.
All photos are my own. Divider made for me by Yaziris.
