My earliest memories of my father are filled with the sights and sounds of his daily routine. Rising at dawn, he would board the train from our quiet suburb to the bustling heart of Chicago. He worked long hours in a tall office on Jackson Boulevard, a place I only visited once on a special Saturday outing. I can still picture the greenish tint of the train windows, the full ashtrays, and the stacks of paper on the brown desks. I remember the sensation of my ears popping as we rode the elevator to the top of the Sears Tower that day.
Every evening, he returned home on the same 5 o’clock train. I would dash from the family room, through the kitchen, and into the foyer, eagerly waiting to surprise him. I’d envelop him in a hug, my cheek pressed against his trench coat, which held the scent of smoke, cold air, and the train.
Once home, he would disappear into the basement, where I’d hear the rhythmic thump of the punching bag. He’d take a long drink from the kitchen sink, sweat glistening on his chin. Later, I would nestle in the crook of his arm as he read me stories, his deep, smoky voice resonating through his chest and into my ear.
To me, this was his life: a comforting routine filled with security and happiness. It wasn’t until I grew older that I discovered he was waking up each day for a job he disliked. I can still see the sadness in his blue eyes and hear him say, “Don’t ever take a job you don’t like. It’s not worth it. Do what you love.”
As a child, he had a passion for reading. He devoured books like Treasure Island, The Ted Williams Story, Crime and Punishment, and countless comic books, often retreating to his bedroom to escape teasing from neighborhood kids. This love for stories shaped who he was and, in turn, influenced me. Conversations with him taught me how to craft narratives, understand compelling arcs, and appreciate the nuances of dialogue and setting. I recall his delight in the weather-related dialogue in the film Fargo—a simple conversation that revealed a deep human yearning to connect.
In college, my father considered majoring in literature to become an English teacher, but a well-meaning advisor steered him towards accounting, claiming it would ensure job security. He followed that advice and became an accountant, eventually marrying and supporting a family. Although he fulfilled his responsibilities, I knew he felt unfulfilled. If he had glimpsed into his future filled with numbers and tax returns, he might have chosen differently, perhaps pursuing his love for literature instead.
Yet, in a way, he made a sacrifice. Our parents’ missteps often teach us invaluable lessons. We observe, learn, and strive to create a better life for ourselves. It’s our duty to do so; otherwise, what’s the point?
I chose to follow my own passions, never considering a job that wouldn’t bring me joy. My career has spanned journalism, political communications, and writing. My love for storytelling guides me, reminding me of the fleeting nature of life and the importance of seeking happiness. This wisdom is a gift from my father.
Now, as a parent, I understand that I, too, will make mistakes. My children will learn from them, just as I learned from my dad. They will hear my errors and, most importantly, the greatest lesson I can impart: “Do what you love.” His grandchildren and great-grandchildren will carry that message forward.
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In summary, my father’s life and lessons have shaped my own path, instilling in me the importance of pursuing what I love. As I navigate parenthood, I carry his wisdom, ensuring that my children embrace their passions too.