Catholic Dads

My Dad retired as a volunteer firefighter back in 2002 after a 34 year career that saw him rise from a probational fireman to chief of the department. He’s a big, hulking guy of 6’2″, though time has caught up to him in the height department a bit. He had to investigate arson, watch as people lost everything they had to faulty wiring, gave mouth-to-mouth to unconscious people who threw up, and saw human remains that were almost unrecognizable in the wake of the detonation of an illegal fireworks factory.

But the only time I’ve ever seen him weep openly was when he and my mom thought I was lost or worse one summer afternoon when I was ten. I thought–and still think–I told my mother that I was going over to a friend’s house to work on a project after school. The friend lived across the street from the middle school and we walked over there and started working.

Turns out Mom and Dad didn’t know/remember this, and the grim minutes turned to agonizing hours when I didn’t arrive at home.

Dad, who was an assistant chief at this time, mobilized all of the firefighters and police in the town to look for me. One of them, one of Dad’s best friends and a good friend of mine, now, too, found me and radioed it back to Dad. It takes little motivation for Dad to lead-foot it and he was there in a flash. He jumped out of the car and ran to give me a bear hug. But I’ll never forget being shocked by his tear-streaked face when he pulled up.

I understand that perfectly now. We were at a birthday party for my youngest niece yesterday afternoon. It was at Caesarland, the Little Caesar’s answer to Major Magic’s, a veritable kidapalooza. I was watching Dale and Rachel, and started helping Dale out with a game he was trying to play. By the time I turned back to Rachel, she had vanished. I started the patrol with Dale at my side, looking for my littlest girl wandering about in her butterfly shirt.

I wasn’t finding her. I went back to our table and mouthed to Heather: “Where’s Rachel?” Surprised–”I don’t know.”

I left Dale with Heather and started searching. No luck. Slow, weaving in and out of the burgeoning crowd, with fear gnawing and growing.

Where is she?

Quiet panic.

Then, after agonizing minutes, I find her, sitting at the Grand Prix driving game, hopelessly trying to reach the pedals.

I carried her to Heather, who took her and seated her for lunch. I wandered a bit to walk it off (didn’t happen) and then sat right by her for lunch, the tears starting but not quite releasing, understanding my own father perfectly.

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