Skip to content

Doing it for Dad

For little boys, dads are superheroes. They’re big and strong, know how to drive trucks, and can kill snakes with shovels. They teach their sons how to ride bikes, whistle with their fingers, and start camp fires. They laugh at fart jokes, even if mom rolls her eyes and sighs.   As a young boy, your dad is the promise of what you will become when you’re a man.

As little boys grow into teenagers and their hormones rage, they begin to think of themselves as the superheroes of the family. Dad is demoted to the hopelessly uncool guy whose entire existence is tailored to the production of maximum embarrassment for his son. When he mows the lawn in dress socks pulled to his knees, tells you how your mom was smokin’ hot in front of your friends, or blasts the Doobie Brothers with the windows rolled down, the teenage boy wishes (prays) that he could disappear into thin air.

But if all goes well, as a teenage boy becomes a man, he begins to realize once again that dads are heroes. Though they’re no longer as strong or as fast as their sons, they’re perpetually wiser.  It becomes obvious that a dad’s presence, guidance, and unflagging devotion to his son’s success is hugely responsible for who he becomes as a man.

I lost my dad, my hero, on May 24th. Suddenly, I find myself living a parallel life to the one I always imagined, one in which I would watch both my parents reach old age. Though I find solace in the fact that he’s at peace after such an agonizing year, I’d give anything to have him back, even for a day. Grief breeds regret, and I find myself wishing I’d asked him more about his life, told him more about mine, or simply spent more time with him when I had the chance.

My dad loved the Ordinary House. Its quirky charms fascinated him, and he was always anxious to come check out my latest project. He was particularly excited about the kitchen, and after his surgery made seeing the room’s completion one of his recovery goals. I still can’t process the fact that I’ll never again have the chance to share my handiwork with him. Dad was an engineer and a builder with exceedingly high standards for craftsmanship, and there are few thing in the world that made me happier than hearing his approval of my work. His praise instilled me with the confidence to take on ever more complex and demanding DIY projects, first on my starter house in Chapel Hill and now at the Ordinary House. I can state as fact that I would not be capable or confident enough to take on this project if it hadn’t been for him. I will honor the skills he nurtured in me by continuing to do every project in a way I know would have made him proud.

A few weeks before Dad died, he asked me to come get his “cancer car”, the Porsche Boxster that he bought in November as a distraction from his failing health. Though he couldn’t tell you the day or time, he was lucid enough to worry about the fact that his new toy wasn’t being driven. I had plans to visit my dad later on the day he died and I was going to tell him: “You better start feeling good soon, because I’m not giving the Porsche back until you beat me at an arm wrestling match.” That would’ve made him smile.

I like to think he knows I had this challenge in mind and that he’s out there somewhere with a grin on his face and a barbell in his hand, working his way back into superhero shape, ready to wrestle my fist to the table.

I love you, Dad. You were a great father, and I miss you terribly.

walking uphill


10 Comments Post a comment
  1. Reid, what a bitter/sweet day of rememberance this must have been for you. Am glad to know that your Dad did see the work that you have completed and continue to do. Obviously, he would have been “tickled” at the inspiration of time, patience and wisdom manifested and returned.

    June 15, 2014
  2. Mom #

    You made him proud every single day.

    June 15, 2014
  3. Elizabeth #

    This is beautifully written. I am so sorry about your dad. He was an awesome guy.

    June 16, 2014
  4. chris highley #

    *Awesome post.*

    June 16, 2014
  5. Anonymous #

    Reid, everything about this is wonderful..thank you for sharing this. Love you-Cyndee

    June 16, 2014
  6. Elvira #

    This was so beautiful, Reid. He is very missed.

    June 16, 2014
  7. Janet Lank #

    Beautifully written.

    June 16, 2014
  8. Megan #

    Reid, this is awesome…

    June 16, 2014
  9. Fran McCullough #

    I think this is the single best Father’s Day piece I’ve ever read. Thanks so much for sharing it.
    I can tell you that no one I know who’s lost a Dad ever thought they’d had enough time with him,
    or said what they meant to say, or felt it was completed in any way. That just seems to be the
    deal. It must be all the more difficult to deal with because he sounds like such a great guy –
    the Porsche story says so much!

    June 16, 2014
  10. Anonymous #

    Thanks, Reid, for sharing such heart-felt thoughts and memories. Your dad will live on in you. You were very blessed to have such an involved dad in your life.
    Blessings, Jeanne

    June 27, 2014


Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: