Father’s Day

Today is a day to celebrate our fathers, the men who raise sons and daughters to become productive members of society.  Therefore, I’d like to talk a little bit about not only my Dad, but also my two grandfathers, Papa (from my dad’s side) and Grandpa (from my mom’s side).  This is the never-before-told story of their greatness.  Now, there might be a few exaggerations, and I may take some creative liberties with their stories, but except for all of that, part of this entry is made from 100% truth.

Grandpa and Papa met in World War II on the battlefields of Europe, fighting Nazis and later zombie Nazis.  Both had volunteered to fight against the Axis.  Papa was a young man, Grandpa was but a young lad.   Together they were the most formidable fighting tandem in the War.  That whole Captain America and Bucky thing?  Yeah, that was based on my Grandpa and Papa, except Papa didn’t need a shield because bullets could not pierce his skin, and Grandpa could shoot lasers out of his eyes.  After the war was over, Grandpa and Papa went their separate ways.  Perhaps our children will meet, and they shall fight in a third World War against vampire Nazis, they thought.  Well, they were wrong about World War III, but they were right about their children, but I’ll get to that later.

Papa went back home to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania (home of the Groundhog) to his wife, Grandma, and a job building railroads.  No, he didn’t work for a particular company.  He was just bored one day and decided western Pennsylvania needed a railroad system.  He finished it in three hours.  By himself.  Grandpa continued serving in the armed forces: he was a fighter pilot in Korea despite having never sat foot in an airplane.  That’s right, he could fly.  Combined with his laser eyes ability, Grandpa was responsible for most of the successful air missions in Korea.  After the war, while stationed in Japan, he met Nanny, who he married.  My mom was born shortly after in Japan, and they moved to America.

Meanwhile, in Punxsutawney, Papa and Grandma were raising a son, a son that would become my Dad.  Dad had quite an accomplished youth.  At six years old, he redirected the flow of a river to prevent the town from flooding.  He would go hunting with his uncle; Uncle Joe once had a deer in his sights and pulled the trigger, but by the time the bullet got to where the deer was, my Dad had already wrestled and killed it with his bare hands, cooked, and eaten it.  At 15, Dad stopped responding to Wilt Chamberlain’s requests to play one-on-one, saying that “it had just gotten too damn easy.”

But soon my Dad had to leave Punxsutawney; there was a whole world out there to explore.  He hiked down to Newport News, VA, where he got a job at the shipyard.  For three years, Dad constituted the entire workforce of the shipyard, building two aircraft carriers, six battleships, and 4 nuclear submarines during this time, the Golden Age of the shipyard.  He then met my Mother, and they married.

In 1983, my Mom gave birth to me, Evan!  As a preemptive action, my Dad beat the shit out of every other father and soon-to-be father in the Hampton Roads region, just so no dumb kid could ever say to me that their dad could beat up my Dad.  I wasn’t born with superhuman physical abilities like my Dad; my superpowers involved being smart and being able to name all of the current and past X-Men.  Dad wanted to develop my intellectual ability, so he always told me to do well in school and treat people with respect.  Not to say he didn’t try to refine my athletic abilities.  He tried to teach me how to pitch (I failed), how to hit a baseball (I failed), how to kick a soccer ball (I failed), how to walk correctly (I got that eventually).

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, my Dad continued to display astonishing feats of superhuman accomplishment.  He single-handedly built a two-story addition to our home.  He coached the Pittsburgh Steelers to a Super Bowl victory in disguise, under the pseudonym “Bill Cowher.”  But most of all, he raised me to adulthood and was, and still is, the person I try to model myself after.  No one works harder and cares as much for his family than my Dad.  So to my Dad, my Grandpa, and my Papa, I love you and Happy Father’s Day.

(Mom, please pass this along to all three of them because Dad’s not good with the Internet and I’m not sure that Grandpa and Papa are aware of its existence.)