Dad: Just doing the best he can, which is better than a son can hope to do

EDITOR:
My father will be 78 this year. I have lunch with him nearly every day. He still lives in the old West Side neighborhood where he was born. He never attended a university. He never vacationed in fancy cities. He spent most of his life working and taking care of his family. He raised seven children on what he earned during his 34 years at General Fireproofing. Five of us graduated from college. He taught all of us right from wrong.
On warm, sunny days he putters around in his backyard workshop. Metal pliers, screwdrivers, and wrenches line the peg board walls. A tired radio plays in the background. The songs of Dean Martin and Nat King Cole breeze through the open garage door as he fusses over his workbench. I see him there as I walk up the driveway at noon time. His hair is streaked with white; his step a little less sure than I remembered.
I was my father's first son. I was named after him. When I was a boy, my grandparents called him Big Dave. They called me Little Dave. I used to like the sound of that. On bright summer Saturday afternoons, he'd lift me onto his shoulders and walk me up the street to their house. There was work to be done and I was expected to help. I'd brush my hand against his bristled crew-cut as I rode on his shoulders. I was happy just to be with him. His hands wrapped around my Red Ball Jet tennis shoes and held me secure. The sky was blue. The leaves of maple trees rustled in the gentle wind. He would wave to neighbors as we made our way along. I would wave as well. Whatever he did, I wanted to do too.
As we would draw near, I would spot the orange poppies that used to freckle the side of my grandparents' house. I would see my grandfather sitting in a red and white plaid folding chair in the backyard enjoying the shade. There was my grandmother next to him, sweeping the back porch steps. They'd look up at us and smile. I'd smile right back at them. I never saw the world as clear as from the top of my father's shoulders.
My father sees me walking up the driveway now and stops his work. I follow him to the house and into the kitchen. He places a jar of homemade peppers on the table. Sometimes I have questions for him, "How would you do this ...", or "What would you do if ..." Sometimes he'll have questions for me. He'll ask about the government's prescription drug plan, the cost of utilities this winter, or even the price of gasoline. I tell him what I think. "Looks like it's going to be an expensive winter," I'll say. A worried look briefly settles upon his face. It soon disappears with a shrug and an "I'll manage attitude." After all, his was the generation that won the Big War. But I know better. When General Fireproofing declared bankruptcy, he was left without a pension. Thirty-four years of work and damn little from the company to show for it.
We eat sandwiches and hot peppers. We listen as the television news reports that the president will soon be addressing the nation about a Gay Marriage Amendment to the Constitution. I sip my iced tea and glance at my father. My mind spins back through the years to the time when he carried me up the street to my grandparents' house. I remember all that he's done for me in my life. I think about all the good things that he and his generation have done for our society. He deserves better from his country. He deserves better from this president.
Still, my father doesn't complain. He just does the best he can, as he has always done. My father, I hope someday to be half the man that he is.
DAVID BOBOVNYIK
Youngstown