I failed to call my father to wish him a happy birthday last month. At least, I failed to call him on his *birthday* to wish him a happy one. Yesterday, alas, I also failed to call him to wish him a happy Father's Day. I'm a bad, bad boy.

It wasn't because I don't like my father. I love him. I love my mother, too, and I didn't call her on her birthday, either. Did I remember to call her on Mother's Day? Hmmm. Can't remember. I missed my sister's birthday this year, as well, and my grandfather's, and so on and so on. Alexander's first birthday is next month, but I don't think Paulette will let me forget to mark that one on time.

I have a friend who doesn't believe in obligatory holiday observances. Giving gifts out of obligation is inappropriate, he contends. But giving gifts just because the inclination strikes you has more impact (I agree). I am increasingly leaning toward this kind of thinking, but I still hold to the idea that remembering to call someone on some special occasion (like a birthday of such) is a good thing. For whatever reason, I've been bad about being good.

Paulette was kind enough yesterday to let me sleep in, to make us breakfast, to offer me a small gift (a book from my Amazon wish list) and to go with whatever whims struck me (like taking a walk around the neighborhood, or playing Kung Fu Chaos on the XBox). It was a laid back observance of Father's Day, but a welcome one. It was nice to just take it easy. To have a day where my favorite snack foods just magically appeared because, well, they're my favorite snack foods.

So, yeah, I had a pleasant enough first Father's Day. And then I forgot to call my own Dad.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

I'm sorry, Dad. You deserve better than that. All good fathers deserve better than that, and I happen to think you're great (corny as that may sound).

It's been weird, lately, noticing how much I sound like you when I talk. Not the voice, but the mannerisms. The style. It's spooky. Paulette will ask me a question, and I'll start to explain why this is this way or that is that way... and I'll notice that I sound like you, explaining the same kind of thing to me. It doesn't happen all the time, but it happens often enough.

You and I disagree on any number of philosophical or political points, but we have a common ground that comes from speaking the same language: a language of integrity, of a strong work ethic, of blue collar roots and of entrepreneurial spirit. I learned that language from you.

It sounds kind of hokey to say, "I love you, Dad." It's the kind of thing that feels like it should go without saying. But it also doesn't go far enough. I'm feeling a little down these days with the concerns of work and local politics and, as my previous essay mentions, my own little mini-identity crisis weighing down upon me.

But when all is said and done, my biggest hope is that I not only live up to the very best of all that you tried to instill in me, but that I exceed it. That I build upon what you've done, and go farther. You are doing so well for yourself, and after so many years of hard work, you deserve it. I want to do just as well, and then do better. I have an advantage over you, and I want to make it count: I had you for a father.